


Gotham Steal

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [17]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Marijuana, Organized Crime, Smut, Summerofgotham2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 20:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Jeremiah has successfully optimized Oswald’s marijuana grow and distribution operation. The trouble is...it’s a littletooefficient.Or, the one where there’s pot, pans and a varied assortment of kitchen utensils...





	1. 99 Problems

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to post-marital bliss, Gobblepot style. It wouldn’t be real if it weren’t a bit weird! This takes place about six months after their wedding, and will be a chaptered fic since there are a couple time jumps and it’s just a big idea and requires a bit more organization. 
> 
> I’ll add more tags as we progress, and I expect this to be between 3-4 chapters long.

“’Ey, Penguin!”

“Mister Gordon—a moment of your time!”

“Is it true the city is shutting down the Iceberg Lounge due to ties with the prostitution ring uncovered by your husband last week?”

“Tell us about the honeymoon!”

“Do you have a comment on your husband’s rumored love child with former fiancé, Barbara Kean?”

Oswald rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses, his men pushing through the throng of reporters as he makes his way toward the yacht. Once he’s reached the foot of the gangplank1, he plasters on a smile and waves at the gathered news crews. He’s surprised to see a few trucks from Metropolis and Boston amid the usual frenzy. Oswald snaps his fingers, and points at the reporter closest to the front, motioning for her microphone.

Frank collects it and hands it over, so Oswald can address the gathered crowd. “Fine members of the local, and surrounding press, I would be happy to answer your questions if you would simply submit them to our press office. I’m a very busy man, especially now that the casino is open for business.”

There’s a wave of questions, all asked at once which Oswald can’t discern. Honestly, they’re like rabid animals. He lets out a chuckle before holding his hands up in placation. “There are, however, a few rumors that I can settle while we’re all gathered here.” He waits for them to settle down, tape recorders held in the air, and pens to paper, before he continues, “The Iceberg Lounge is more popular than ever, despite the untoward rumors regarding sex trafficking.

“We’ve just won the area award for outstanding entertainment venue for the second consecutive year and, frankly, I’m a little insulted that any of you would believe I would ever involve myself in anything so tacky, even prior to my reformation.” He adds, “Human trafficking is a deplorable and disgusting exploitation of women and minors, and I stand behind my husband’s statement that the perpetrators responsible for the ring should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

The reporter from Metropolis then shouts before the rest of the crowd are finished penning Oswald’s statement in their notepads. “Is it true the GCPD is considering issuing another audit of your husband’s cases?”

Oswald feels himself begin to tense, then takes a deep breath and shakes it off. This is all public record, the biased politics of the GCPD will always be a burden to Jim, and so he shrugs noncommittally. “Captain Gordon is an exemplary member of our community and an extraordinary leader of our city’s law enforcement officers. The GCPD can audit him every month until the time he retires, as far as I’m concerned, if it means I get extra alone time with my incredibly attractive husband.”

There’s a chorus of laughter among the gathered reporters, and so Oswald decides to be charitable. “I’ll take one more question, and then I really do have to be going.”

A multitude of hands shoot up and Oswald recognizes a face from Gotham’s WGTU Radio2. Oswald points at him and is actually surprised with a genuine question that has nothing to do with seedy rumors, his past or his marriage. “First, congratulations on your reform and your recent nuptials, Mister Gordon,” the reporter respectfully acknowledges. “Your business ventures of the past couple of years have undoubtedly benefited the city’s tourism economy. Do you have plans, currently, to further diversify your interests and explore other areas of industry to create more jobs within the city?”

Oswald purses his lips, mulls the question over for a minute. If they only knew just how many businesses he already ran, but he can’t exactly point out all the untaxed ways in which he’s stimulating the economy and creating jobs, now can he?  In truth, he feels stretched thin as it is, which is why he’s paying for Edward’s business and technology classes at Gotham University.

“That…is an excellent question,” Oswald finally says. “With the casino having just opened. I honestly haven’t had much time to consider what, if any, endeavor I may undertake next.” The reporter looks somewhat disheartened by his answer, clearly a man who cares deeply for the city. Oswald dons his most amiable grin and adds, “But I’m always looking for new opportunities. Never say never, am I right?”

He then turns to the press at large and says, “Please submit any additional inquiries by mail to our press department’s PO box or by courier to the Dockmaster’s front office!”

With that, he tosses the mic back to Frank, and proceeds up the gangplank to the main deck of the yacht. Butch is waiting for him with a paper and a large cup from Shirley’s down by the university. He must have come straight over from riding with Ed down in Burnley3. He offers Oswald the cup and paper wordlessly, brows knit and frowning.

Oswald groans when the taste of Earl Gray and honey hit his tongue. He regards Butch with a genuine grin. “To what do I owe this most thoughtful gesture, Butch?”

Butch shrugs. “S’nothin’.”

Oswald pauses in their stroll toward his office, to give his colleague a thorough once over. “You’re my bodyguard, and you’re distracted. What happened?”

Butch lets out a frustrated huff. “Tabitha dumped me.”

Oswald is unable to conceal the delighted twitch of his lips as he says, “That’s…terrible.”

Butch glares. “You’re happy—admit it. You hate her.”

“Fine, yes!” Oswald agrees, piqued. “She’s horrid, and you’ll be better off without her!”

“You better not—”

“Better not, what?” Oswald demands heatedly. “Murder her? _Please_. She isn’t worth even half the effort.”

Butch is regarding him curiously, as if he’s looking at some abstract painting, trying to discern its greater meaning. “You really mean that, don’t you?” he finally asks, voice skeptical.

“Look around you, Butch.” Oswald rolls his eyes, gesturing to the casino at large as he continues on toward the office. “I have more important things to focus on these days.” He doesn’t mention that he’s already planned his revenge on Tabitha years ago. All he lacks is an opportunity, but Oswald is patient. A little simmer only sweetens the sauce, after all.

Butch huffs. “Yeah…about that.”

Oswald closes them both behind the sound-proofed double doors of his immaculate office, and sighs. “Now what?”

“I swung back for the tea after visiting our florist on the East side,” Butch divulges with a grimace. “There’s a bit of a problem with inventory.”

Oswald can feel his blood pressure spiking. “Did he steal from me?”

Butch holds up his hands and shakes his head. “No.”

His spine relaxes immediately. “What’s he done, then?”

“There’s a lot of inventory,” Butch says, emphasis heavy on ‘a lot.’

“So…sell it?”

“I don’t think you understand, Boss. There’s _a lot_.” Butch swallows, looking incredibly worn. “You need to see it.”

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose. The entire idea of hiring Jeremiah was so that Oswald could avoid these trips into the land of undeniable plausibility4. The press is looking for literally any sign that Oswald has slipped, any indication that he’s using Jim as a cover; That their relationship is little more than a farce to cover up some dastardly plot to undermine or corrupt the GCPD and everything Jim represents to this city. If they find so much as bread crumb, Jim’s reputation will be forever tainted.

Still, if he ignores what Butch claims is a problem, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Avoidance solves nothing. “Arrange the meeting.”

***

 “What the hell have you done?”

Jeremiah answers his question with a smile. “What you asked.”

“You told me that allowing you to automate certain elements of production would decrease my overall personal risk.” Oswald turns, waving his arms wildly to indicate the mountain of packaged marijuana stacked against the far wall of the facility’s basement. “So, why is there a giant pile of Schedule One sitting in my warehouse?!”

“There may have been some unforeseen…snafus,” Jeremiah admits with a shrug. “But your operation is running at peak efficiency, which means the surplus should be stable now.”

Oswald blinks, forces himself to remain calm, though his heart is pounding at a frightening speed. “Stable surplus?”

“Yes.” Jeremiah gestures at the stacks of product along the wall with an over enthusiastic grin. “As I’ve been making improvements to the process, the yield from each harvest has increased. The final adjustment was figuring out a way to better utilize the space to allow for more plants. Combined with the proper soil composition and automated watering and planting processes, we’ve managed to accumulate a recurring surplus.”

“So, decrease the number of plants going forward,” Oswald suggests, which should be the obvious solution.

“That isn’t possible without rebuilding the robots,” Jeremiah informs, clearly annoyed, grin morphing into something with a bit more teeth.

“Why?” Oswald demands. Like hell is going to let himself be cowed by a Valeska ever again. “Why would you build a system that can’t be modified? How is that, in any way, efficient?”

“The technology doesn’t exist,” Jeremiah argues. “You have no idea what you’re asking me to invent!” The man fiddles with his suspenders for a moment before he suggests, in a voice that’s far cheerier, “We could swap some of the plants out for vegetables. Do you like tomatoes?”

“This isn’t a fruit stand!” Oswald shouts, before closing his eyes and regaining his composure. Quieter, he adds, “Even if it were, how are we going to push all of this to an already flooded market?”

“The shelf-life of marijuana is actually quite long if it’s sealed in airtight containers,” Jeremiah replies. He gestures at the packaged product, “Like so.”

“We can’t sit on this that long.” Oswald will remain adamant in this. The more they sit on, the higher the risk becomes. Clearly, Jeremiahs plans for efficiency didn’t extend to actual distribution. “I’m not trying to keep a stockpile. The idea is to produce and sell, rinse and repeat. Nothing stays on the shelf!”

Edward, who’s been respectfully quiet, observing the exchange between Oswald and Jeremiah, clears his throat. “Oswald, perhaps expansion would seem prudent at this point.”

Just the thought floods him with exhaustion. He collapses down into the chair behind Jeremiah’s desk. “How, Edward? We need time to build a network of buyers and a means of safe transport, neither of which we have currently. Meanwhile, this is just going to continue to stack up. Even if I temporarily stop production, we’ll be sitting on thousands of pounds of product.”

“Purchasing a shipping company as a front would be the most obvious solution,” Edward offers.

“Yes, Edward,” Oswald sarcastically replies, “stamping my name all over a shiny new fleet of trucks _would be_ obvious.” Obvious to the press. Obvious to the police. Obvious to the goddamned FBI. He may as well drop it by the pound on little parachutes from a blimp that says: courtesy of Oswald Gordon.

“I thought you said there was no way anyone could trace this warehouse back to you, Oswald,” Edward says. “Why not just burn the excess?”

“I said it would be difficult—not impossible.” Especially when the FBI would have thousands of pounds of motivation fueling their search for the person responsible. The accolades they’d receive for a bust this large would be extreme. More importantly, however: “Do you have any idea what that’s worth? We’re not burning it. Even if we did…”

“The smell,” Jeremiah finishes for him. “Very distinct.”

Oswald shakes his head, pondering. “We need a good, strong front.”

“With trucks,” Edward muses aloud.

Jeremiah plants his chin in his hand where it’s propped on the desk and exhales through loose lips, making him sound like a very bored horse. He then says, “You’ll need buyers first.”

Oswald grimaces at the idea, as it comes to him. It leaves a foul taste in his mouth, but he is short of options. “I’ve got contacts in a few cities, left over from Maroni’s alcohol supply chain. I could tap them.”

Edward regards him with a wary crease in his brow. “Can you trust their loyalties?”

“I wasn’t the one that shot Maroni in the head,” Oswald reminds. “Besides, there’s no money to be made, investing in dead men’s empty legacies.”

Jeremiah hums. “Poetic,” he praises, eyes squinting.

Oswald flushes, then straightens. “I’ll secure our network of distributors. In the meantime, you two need to find a suitable, inconspicuous cover.”

Ed and Jeremiah eye each other awkwardly before Edward follows Oswald’s cue, and clumsily shoots to his feet. They make their exit from the facility under the cover of night from the recently cleared trucking entrance. He feels slightly more secure in visiting the operation without having to make that short appearance on the sidewalk. Instead, the garage door lifts and Butch drives them all directly from inside the warehouse out onto the adjacent street.

He hopes with Edward’s assistance, that Jeremiah will do a better job at finding a convincing front for their expansion than he did at planning this automation. Though, Oswald does have to admit…if they pull this off, Jeremiah will have made them an unprecedented amount of money.

***

 It’s late by the time Oswald is climbing the front stairs of the manor, knee protesting every step of the way. There’s a sharp, shooting pain that reaches from his ankle to his hip at the slightest bit of pressure put onto his right foot, powerful enough to set his teeth on edge. He’s breathing heavily with the strain when he finally reaches the door, but he simply can’t go any further.

He drops down onto the porch swing Jim had installed just last month. There used to be one in the same exact spot ages ago, but time had worn the original fixtures, and no one had ever bothered to repair them. Until now, and Oswald is eternally grateful. The plush cushions along the back of the swing come as a welcome relief to his aching hips.

The past few weeks have taken a toll, predictably, and Oswald has a dire need to stay off his feet for a few days. It’s only Wednesday, however, and he needs to remain a visible face while his latest business venture is still making headlines. From the [backlit, shattered-glass](https://www.nlcafe.hu/otthon/20160512/meno-uvegpultok/)5 bar tables and marble floors of the game room to the [lushly](https://cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/151119161945-okto-qk-0586-exlarge-169.jpg) [furnished](https://aa26e36c57f33c7b50b0-2d268c5dae618615daa5314a1f0f4b99.ssl.cf1.rackcdn.com/responsive/790:492/aa26e36c57f33c7b50b0-2d268c5dae618615daa5314a1f0f4b99.ssl.cf1.rackcdn.com/lps/assets/u/Luxury-WOW-Suite-Bedroom-at-W-Barcelona.jpg) [hotel](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/07/26/article-0-1B01DFCC000005DC-223_964x467.jpg) [suites](http://www.luxetiffany.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Duplex-Suite.jpg) on the upper decks—the Iceberg Casino is a dream come true. If only his other, more lucrative business ventures would run themselves, perhaps he wouldn’t feel depleted this early in the week.

He can feel the tension crawling up his spine at just the thought of contacting Maroni’s old connects. Oswald has no doubt that they’ll all at least come to the table, but he worries over any lingering hostilities regarding old loyalties. He leans his head back against the chair and contemplates his approach. Money can only ensure so much security, and Gotham is prime real estate for those with resources enough to muscle their way into the game. Inviting outsiders into his turf is risky, and requires a certain subtle threat inherit with hospitality. He needs another strongman—like Zsasz, but what better example of how old loyalties can lead to betrayal than that bald bastard?

The front door creaks open from the inside, causing Oswald to startle from his thoughts, pushing him from semi-relaxed to high alert. He jumps to his feet, then cries out at the shock of pain that follows. His knees buckle, and Oswald falls back down onto the swing with a pained whimper.

“Oz?” Jim rushes over, socked feet and plaid pajama pants, to crouch before Oswald where he is doubled over with his hands braced against his knees, taking measured breaths. “Are you alright? I saw the headlights in the window, but you never came in. Is it your leg?”

Oswald reaches for his cane and angrily tosses it across the porch, avoiding Jim’s sympathetic eyes. It’s all too much, and he snaps, “Just save it, will you? Let me wallow in my impotence in peace.”

Jim doesn’t leave, slides from his crouch down onto his knees, scooting up so that he’s just between Oswald’s legs. He runs his hands along Oswald’s thighs, from his kneecaps to his hips. When Jim’s fingers reach his lower back, he presses in along either side of his spine and rubs. Oswald groans in response, finally lifts his eyes to meet Jim’s steady gaze.

“I’m sorry.” Oswald sniffs, truly feeling like a villain. He doesn’t like Jim to see him so upset, when he’s angry enough to throw things. It makes him feel afraid—what if he accidentally hurts Jim—and ashamed, because Jim is so controlled and Oswald…isn’t.

“Rough day?” Jim asks gently, tilting his head to catch Oswald’s eyes again.

Oswald opens his mouth as if to unload all of his burdens only to snap it shut again lest he forget himself. Instead, he nods morosely and sighs.

“Is there anything I should be prepared for?” Jim asks warily, inferring the reasons for Oswald’s reticence.

He thinks of Jeremiah momentarily but ultimately shakes his head. The man hasn’t done anything in the past eight months to warrant alarm.

“No, nothing like that,” he assures. “It’s just…there’s a lot of pressure to be out front while the casino gains traction.”

Jim hums. “I saw you on the news this morning. You said something about an incredibly attractive husband you’re dying to spend time with.”

Oswald snorts as Jim’s hands work their way back down his legs until he has both of them wrapped around Oswald’s bad ankle. He squeezes and releases, up and down, fingers applying firm pressure to the twisted muscle with a practiced touch; knows how to work against his thresholds to get Oswald’s aching joints to relax.

“Can you blame me?” Oswald asks, gesturing to where Jim is knelt on the porch. “I come home, and my husband immediately gets on his knees for me. What’s more attractive than that?”

“I don’t know, your husband does sound pretty amazing,” Jim replies, grinning mischievously. “But mine woke me up with a blowjob this morning, so I’m pretty sure he’s much hotter than yours.”

Oswald swats him on the shoulder with one of the throw pillows. Jim cackles, but continues his ministrations, lets the moment fade into something quietly comfortable. He’s been miserable hours, returning to the casino after their meeting at the warehouse, to make his final rounds and mingle with his high-stakes guests. All while trying very hard not to panic, walking the fine of edge of a precipice with which he is all too familiar. Twenty minutes, he’s been home, and already Jim has managed to call him back.

“Jim?” Oswald sighs as the last threads of his previous upset finally unravel, including the sweeping resentment of his gimp leg. He’s left feeling slightly defeated instead, voice wavering a bit as he admits, “I don’t think I can make it up the stairs.”

Jim looks up from his task, assessing, before he gently releases Oswald’s foot and moves to stand. He holds up a finger, and says, “Give me one sec, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Oswald nods, secretly grateful for a moment of space to collect himself. It’s hard admitting weaknesses, even when he knows Jim isn’t going to use them against him. His leg doesn’t often impede him, but on days like this Oswald finds himself cloaked in animosity. There are moments where he thinks back on that day with a fresh hatred for Mooney. Then, he remembers that it was his own failings that led to his injury—his machinations at the time were effective, but oh so sloppy—a hard lesson he needed to learn. It could have been so much worse, but the that truth only fills him with self-loathing.

He could have been so much better.

Jim returns, having thrown on a zip-up, hooded sweatshirt5, to sit down beside Oswald on the swing and present him with a small molasses cookie. Oswald accepts his gift with a grateful whine and a kiss. They aren’t his favorite flavor of cookie, but the molasses does a good job disguising the smell and flavor of baked cannabis. At any rate, Oswald feels a little more comfortable with hiding his marijuana inside baked goods than he does keeping the flower hidden in the house. They’d have to use a K-9 to sniff it out, and isn’t it preposterous that Oswald has murdered people and been pardoned, but a little marijuana (or a lot) could be his entire unraveling?

Ridiculous.

As he chews up his cookie, Jim throws an arm over the back of the swing. In his other hand, is a copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. He swallows his mouthful, and leans against Jim’s side, to which his husband responds by wrapping his raised arm around Oswald’s shoulders and sifting fingers through his hair.   

“Are you going to read while we wait? You could have brought me one,” Oswald teases. It’s going to be at least forty-five minutes before the THC kicks in, however. There’s not much to do out here other than stare at the stars, which…doesn’t seem so horrible considering the company, actually.

“I thought maybe I’d read it for the both of us,” Jim informs, adorably shy, “if you want.”

He lifts his head slightly from where it’s laying against Jim’s shoulder, so he can press a kiss to the hard line of his jaw. “Don’t be silly. Of course, I want you to. I love listening to you read.”

“Oh.” Jim clears his throat, blush barely discernible under the soft glow of the porch lights. He thumbs the book open to a dog-eared page. “Do you care if I start where I left off, or do you want me to start over?”

“Here’s fine,” Oswald tells him. He’s read the story countless times himself.

“The Letter,” Jim reads. “The following day was dull and foggy. The Hall was surrounded by heavy, low clouds…”

Oswald sighs contentedly as he lets Jim’s softly spoken, careful cadence wash over him. He’s still consumed with anxiety over his grow op, but it’s a low background hum as he allows himself to be present within Jim’s company. Nothing is more important than this, and Oswald will do what he must to ensure its safety.

 

 

 

 

  1. A gangplank is that ramp thing used as a bridge between a dock and a pier for larger vessels. Like Oz’s shiny new super yacht.
  2. An actual radio/tv station in Gotham modeled off of one in Michigan. Being from D-town, I wasn’t gonna NOT use it. <3
  3. Burnley is the district in Gotham where the university resides. We will learn more about Edward’s education venture in coming chapters.
  4. Not to be confused with plausible deniability. Hahah—I got jokes. 
  5. Everything highlighted in this section is to give an idea about what the floating casino hotel looks like. These are all images from various similar super yachts. I LOVE pebbles glass and it’s such an Oswald thing, there’s no way he wouldn’t go there it’s too perfect for the ice theme!!



 

 

 

 

 


	2. Feels Good to be a Gangster...Sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Jeremiah share a plan with Oswald that is _so crazy_ , it just might work! 
> 
> Or, in which there is a plan, a meeting and a not-so-minor personal crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own, nor have I ever been associated with Gotham Steel. If you do/are, then consider this free advertising and leave my poor, broke ass alone.

_We’ve found a possible candidate. -E_

Oswald glances at the text and arches a brow. It’s been four weeks, and while this is definitely good news, he is skeptical of this rather speedy turn around. He’s meeting with the fourth, and arguably the most crucial, of Maroni’s old contacts in a mere five days’ time. It was easy enough to pitch a new stream of revenue to the small-timers from Chicago, Boston and Central City, but a distributor in Metropolis would be incredibly profitable and convenient for its proximity.

Oswald doesn’t like any of these families, but Gazzo is undoubtedly the worst. He’ll be the hardest sell and the most inhospitable guest, but Oswald _will_ sell him. Once the matter is settled, one way or another, the network will be in place, and they’ll only have a few short weeks to begin deliveries. There isn’t time to get it wrong, so whatever Ed and Jeremiah have found—it better be good.

_Meet me at the lounge in an hour. -O_

_Will do. J coming with. -E_

_Use the backdoor, ffs. -O_

_No need to swear. We’ll be careful. -E_

Oswald flips his phone shut with a snap. If that’s supposed to comfort him, it doesn’t. The last thing he needs is a gaggle of fake clowns seen entering his establishment in broad daylight. Edward’s idea of careful is about as colorful as his choice of disguises.

His phone rings in his hand, startling him from his reverie. He checks the caller ID. What the hell does Barbara want?

“What?” He asks irritably when he answers.

“Oswald,” Barbara greets, falsely polite. “Why did I see Frank Santini leaving the docks this morning? What the hell is Central City doing poking its nose into your business?”

Oswald bristles. “You’d do well to remember who owns the docks. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Barbara’s huff is loud against the receiver. “We have an arrangement, Oswald.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Oswald clicks his tongue. “You think I’m trying to push arms? Really?”

“He’s my client!”

“Yes, well, he’s expanding his horizons,” Oswald snidely informs.

There’s a beat of silence, then: “Since when are you willing to reach across borders? I thought that was a side project for you.”

“It is.”

Barbara hums. “Fine. Be mysterious, Ozzy. My sales better not see a drop. I’ll know who it was.”

“Go to hell, Barbara.”

Barbara snorts. “You first. Oh,” she adds suddenly, keeping him on the line, “I saw your picture in the paper—killer nails. We really should get together and discuss our mutual appreciation of high fashion.”

There’s a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, but something stays the impulse. He’d worn black nail polish for the opening of the casino; hardly a fashion statement. With an impatient huff, Oswald challenges, “You know where to find me.”

“Oz?” Jim’s voice sounds from the foyer, and Oswald is grateful Barbara isn’t there to see him flinch.

“Oh, is that Jim? Tell him I said—”

Oswald punches the 'end' button, and switches it to silent. He doesn’t miss her incoming text as he shoves it into his pocket.

_Rude. -B_

Oswald steps out of his downstairs office and catches Jim entering the sitting room. They meet in front of the staircase, Jim reaching to cradle his face so he can press a lingering kiss to Oswald’s lips.

“Well, hello there,” Oswald says lowly, when Jim pulls back, hands sliding down to Oswald’s waist. His own rise up to Jim’s shoulders, and clasp loosely behind his neck.

“Hey.” Jim grins in reply, then gives Oswald a once over. “Are you on your way out?”

Oswald sighs, frowning. “Unfortunately. I have an appointment at the club that can’t be postponed.”

Jim’s brows furrow, eyes narrow. “What are you up to?”

Oswald flushes. He wishes he could say, but he doesn’t actually know himself. “I’ll explain when I get back,” he offers instead. As much as he can without compromising Jim’s integrity, of course.

Jim huffs. Kisses Oswald soundly on the forehead. “Be careful.”

He closes the distance between them, wraps Jim up in a lingering embrace. Oswald can’t promise he’ll be safe, despite this meeting being on his territory and among current allies. His business is unpredictable by nature. There’s always a risk, every time he leaves these walls. Every time he leaves these arms.

“I’ll do my best.”

***

Edward is practically vibrating in his chair where he’s sat beside Jeremiah in Oswald’s office at the lounge, gnawing on his thumbnail. Oswald arches a brow as he takes his own seat behind the desk, fingers drumming over its bare surface. Butch is standing off in the corner by the door, a necessary party to this particular discussion, as well as a measure of added security. He isn’t truly worried about this alliance going sideways, but he knows better than to wholly believe it couldn’t.

“Alright, what is it?” He demands, truly worried for Edward’s thumb should it run out of nail.

Jeremiah grins, lips parting over his teeth in that unnerving way of the Valeskas. He hefts a large, leather tote onto the desk, opens it up to withdraw a series of stainless steel pots and pans. When everything is laid out neatly—sauce pans, frying pans, egg pans and even an assortment of utensils—Jeremiah retakes his seat, wiggling his fingers like a magician.

“Ta-daaaa!” He crows winningly. It’s the most startlingly similar to his dead twin that Oswald has ever seen him, and the resemblance is more than a little terrifying.

He waits for any forthcoming explanation, receives none, and snaps. “What the hell is the meaning of this?”

Edward rolls his eyes. “I told you he wouldn’t get it,” he says to Jeremiah. He then reaches into his jacket and retrieves a neatly rolled file. “This is a copy of a chapter eleven bankruptcy filed by Gotham Steel.”

The name is familiar, and he surmises they are the producers of the low-end cookware currently occupying his desk. Oswald takes the file and flips through it. There are pages upon pages of receipts, debtors, and plans for restructuring. Oswald purses his lips. The infrastructure is definitely there, with a moderate fleet of trucks.

Still.

“This looks more like a money pit than an investment.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jeremiah argues sagely.

Ed shrugs. “He isn’t wrong.”

“If I buy this, it’s automatically suspect. No amount of investment should be capable of keeping this sinking boat afloat, so how do we explain a company in bankruptcy—that hasn’t turned a profit in—” Oswald flips through the financial report. “God, twelve years? How the hell--It doesn't matter. All of this information is available to the public.” Oswald points out. “Jim will be obligated to investigate. Anything I purchase will be big news. Our execution—”

Jeremiah holds up a hand to forestall Oswald’s further protests. “If I may?”

Oswald huffs, waves a hand for him to get on with it. Jeremiah clears the pans off his desk with a quick sweep of his arm, making Butch jolt in the corner, taking a reactive step forward. Oswald stays him with a wordless wave of his hand. He watches, openly amused as Jeremiah once again hefts the tote onto his desk and lays out another, entirely different set of pans and utensils.

“Non-stick!" He declares as he straightens his lapels and retakes his seat. "It's the way of the future!” 

Edward pinches his nose, while Oswald chuckles despite himself. The man has a certain charm his brother lacked which Oswald can’t help to appreciate. He picks up one of the new pans and turns it over, inspecting it’s finish. It looks like copper, but Oswald knows it can’t be.

“These aren’t aluminum,” he observes, careful to address Jeremiah, sensing an opportunity to get a better understanding of him by forcing him to say more than a few words at once.

“No,” Jeremiah confirms, and explains, “These are a prototype. Titanium with a ceramic coating.” He picks up the copper-tinted egg pan and taps two knuckles against the center. “Commercial-grade cookware for the everyday cook!” He exclaims, then casually adds, “If you’re into that sorta thing.”

Oswald blinks. “You…made these?”

Edward is smiling now, eyes glinting in that way they do before a grand reveal. “It’s brilliant,” Ed insists. “We give the company a face-lift, place a few ads, and then pretend we’re selling your new, designer pots while simultaneously selling your pot!”

Oswald picks up the griddle prototype, runs his fingers over the surface. “You made genuine cookware,” he repeats, unable to quite believe it. “Are you planning to actually produce these?”

“The most believable lies always contain a bit of the truth,” Jeremiah replies with a shrug.

“The infrastructure already exists,” Edward adds. “It’s just a matter of acquiring the appropriate materials for Jeremiah’s design.”

Oswald grunts thoughtfully, admiring the stainless steel handle of the griddle. They are incredibly well made, despite their slight imperfections—uneven edges and unpolished hardware caps, to name a couple. The manufacturing process would iron many of those tiny imperfections out, however. He realizes the pans are nothing more than a means to a more profitable end, but Jeremiah could have a future in professional grade kitchenware.

“These are fantastic,” he praises, steadily forming an attachment to this proposal.

“Yeah, they’re nice,” Jeremiah says, standing up to sweep the prototypes off Oswald’s desk yet again. “But These are nicer.”

Jeremiah upends the tote bag then and several small, odd-shaped cardboard boxes tumble over his desk. Oswald manages to catch a small triangle before it bounces off to the floor, raising it to eye level in order to inspect it closely. It’s like a tiny, triangle gift box. He pops the folded top, mouth dropping open when a baggie of weed falls out onto his lap.

Edward chuckles, clearly delighted by Oswald’s surprise. “These are inserts, used in the containers to keep the pots and pans from moving during shipping.”

“Part of the redesign is new packaging, and these,” Jeremiah says, pinching a weird octagonal box between his fore and middle fingers, “have been engineered to fit my prototypes specifically.”

“Guess what the shapes indicate?” Edward asks with unfettered enthusiasm.

Oswald regards the little parcels, grinning as realization dawns on him. “Weights.”

“Bingo!” Jeremiah claps.

Oswald rubs his chin, turns his attention back to Edward’s files. “When are we planning to approach the current proprietors with an offer?”

“What’s a potato’s least favorite day of the week?” Ed replies cheekily.

Oswald rolls his eyes as Jeremiah sniggers.

“Fry-day, Oswald!” Edward answers, nonplussed by any lack of enthusiasm.  

Four days to assess, then.

Oswald hums. He looks up to see Butch, rubbing his forehead in the corner, clearly at the day’s quota for strange bedfellows. Oswald can understand his exasperation; it sounds crazy, it is crazy. That’s what makes it so brilliant; Ed’s assertion is correct.

“This is preposterous,” he says, sneering before letting a wide grin spread over his face. “It’s perfect.”

Ed and Jeremiah exchange a knowing, conspiratorial glance at that; one which sets Oswald on edge. He throws his hands up in vexation—it’s always something. “What?!”

***

The next couple days finds Oswald buried beneath endless paperwork. There’s a footnote for every line of text, it seems; most of them protections for the interests of the sellers. If he sees one more clause about liability, he is going to show up on their doorstep with a new contract, and force them to sign it in blood.

A quiet rap sounds against the door of his office, promising blessed distraction. Jim’s head peaks in from the other side a moment later, and Oswald smiles at the sight of him.

“Is now a bad time?” He asks, eyes wary as he catches sight of Oswald’s legalese mountain.

“It’s never a bad time if it’s for you,” Oswald replies sincerely. He beckons his husband inside with a wave of his hand. “By all means, please come in and distract me from this dreadful contract.”

Jim huffs a quiet chuckle, and heads toward his favorite chair, the leather couch along the inside wall. He sprawls over the seat, and Oswald admires the way his jeans cling tightly to his hips long enough that Jim clears his throat to regain his attention.

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” Jim teases, gaze alight with mirth.

Oswald shrugs. “Last I checked, we both signed a license granting me permission to gawk at will.”

Jim sniggers. “I’d like to see where that’s stated on the marriage certificate,” he challenges.

Oswald pretends to tidy the papers in his grip, tapping the bottom edge against the tabletop as if to further straighten them. “It’s written in very small, almost indiscernible script, but it’s there. On my honor as a gentleman.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” Jim gestures to himself with a wave of his hand. “Don’t let me infringe upon your rights.”

“I thought that was your day job?” Oswald playfully goads, earning himself a glare. He sighs, raising his hands in placation. “In all seriousness, darling, what can I do for you?”

Jim sighs, and Oswald is immediately worried by its burdened quality. Today is Jim’s on-call day, the man should be enjoying himself rather than pouting around the house. Oswald eyes the paperwork with knit brows. Has he been neglectful? Perhaps he should take the day off as well; accompany Jim to a show or the museum. There’s an antique automobiles exhibit open to the public until the end of Summer, and Jim has mentioned it more than once.

“I know it’s none of my business, and I want to be supportive,” Jim says, catching Oswald off-guard with his sudden solemnity, “but I’m worried about you.”

“Worried about me?”

Jim gestures to the desk, explains, “The casino just opened and you’re already moving on another project. I’m a little concerned that you’re taking on too much for one person, maybe.”

Oswald feels a small, genuine smile curl over his lips. “I have help, Jim. I always do, in one form or another. You know that.”

Jim huffs. “Ed?”

“Among others,” he corrects. “You really needn’t worry.”

“Yeah.” Jim seems to agree but his face is still pinched with some unspoken concern. Oswald gets to his feet and crosses over to the couch, draping himself over Jim’s prone form.  

“What else?” He prods. “You can say it.”

Jim wraps a steadying arm around Oswald’s waist, uses the other to cup his face. His eyes are searching as he says, “I know Gotham Steel is a cover for something, there’s no way you’d invest in it otherwise. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Oswald drops his forehead to Jim’s collarbone, body slumping in equal parts relief and defeat. “Jim,” he says, exasperated. This is not how their relationship works.

“I’m not asking you to come clean,” Jim defends, “I just…please just tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

Oswald sighs heavily. “It’s not what you think.”

“You’re renewing your certification as a personal chef out of some revived interest in the culinary arts, Oz?” Jim asks skeptically. “Really?”

“I could be,” he stubbornly insists, meeting Jim’s eyes. 

Jim stares back, as unamused as Oswald had been when Edward and Jeremiah had sprung it on him during their meeting. 

“Fine!” Oswald huffs. “There might have been an issue. I might have dealt with that issue in an unorthodox way. But it’s not a life or death issue, so there’s no need to worry.”

“Okay,” Jim concedes. Most of the tension finally leaves his body, and Oswald sinks into his relaxed embrace.

“Is that all?” He pushes, a little more irked than he intended to imply.

“Why not keep the other spokesman?” Jim asks, genuinely curious. “Or pay someone else?”

Oswald chuckles. “The company is in dire need of a facelift. Daniel Preen1 isn’t even from Gotham. If I’m going to turn this company around—”

“If you’re going to make it look like you’re turning it around, you mean,” Jim interjects sarcastically.

Oswald clears his throat, continues more assertively, “If I am going to turn this company around, because I am a purely altruistically-motivated citizen, then it has to be from top to bottom. New leadership, new products, and a spokesperson that truly cares for the success of the city in which Gotham Steel is headquartered. A local face for a local company.”

“You practice that speech in the mirror?” Jim laughs, and Oswald marvels at the way it feels, bubbling up from his diaphragm, vibrating against Oswald’s ribs. He presses his ear to Jim’s chest, wants to hear it echo from inside.

“For hours,” he replies ironically, when Jim’s chuckles have subsided. “That’s only the first half, too. In the second, I talk about how I’ll be saving over twelve-hundred jobs and creating three hundred more when the call center is opened.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim mutters blithely. “You’re really always one step ahead, aren’t you?”

“Three, at the very least,” Oswald charitably amends.

Jim huffs, breath blowing across Oswald’s hair like a breeze, making him shiver slightly. “I know it’s not half as altruistic as you’re going to frame it for the press, but…” he shrugs. “I’m proud of you, Oz. Whatever your reasons…this is a big win for the city.”

He can feel his face heat in response to Jim’s genuine praise, especially as he offers it despite knowing Oswald has ulterior motives. It’s an acknowledgement that Oswald’s way can sometimes work, despite Jim’s assertions to the contrary years ago. They’ve always had the same purpose, though they come at it from opposing ends.

***

“So, this is the infamous Penguin of Gotham, huh?” Don Gazzo remarks as he is steps off the gangplank to meet Oswald on the main deck of the Iceberg Casino. He glances around at the bustling yacht. “You got style, I’ll give ya that.”

Oswald grins congenially, offering a hand which is politely accepted with a firm shake. “Welcome aboard, Don Gazzo. I’m certain you’ll find your stay most amenable.”

“Oh,” Gazzo says with a chuckle, eyebrows raising playfully, as he glances over his shoulder to address his two men, “you hear that boys? Got ourselves a real classy host.” His men huff snidely before Gazzo returns his full attention to Oswald, tilting his head to the side. “Don’t really have much time for good graces in Metropolis. You’ll have to pardon my manners, but I’d much rather we cut to the chase. My operations don’t run themselves.”

“Perhaps you should consider a path to optimization,” Jeremiah suggests from where he’s stood at Edward’s shoulder, just behind Oswald.

Oswald’s lips tighten at the corners as Gazzo leans slightly to the left to get a glimpse at who’s just spoken out of term. “Don’t have much time for insolence either,” he says, taking Jeremiah’s measure before meeting Oswald’s pinched stare. “Good help is hard to find though, ain’t it?”

Oswald maintains a collected front as he takes in every nuance of Gazzo’s body language. He has an admirable poker face, but one thing is abundantly clear: he doesn’t take Oswald or his operations seriously. Likely, he’s only agreed to the meeting to assess the voracity of Oswald’s power and whether or not he could wrest it out from under him. It doesn’t come as a surprise, but it does make for a much more exciting meeting.

He responds to Gazzo’s mild provocation with practiced nonchalance, “You’d be surprised.” He then motions toward the direction of his office. “Shall we?”

Butch leads them all along the deck until they reach the entrance to the game room, where Oswald observes Gazzo admire it with a keen interest. Soon enough, they’re climbing the winding staircase that leads to the upper deck offices where Oswald has staged one of the unused rooms to serve for their meeting. There are too many personal effects in his usual workspace, and so he’s unwilling to invite any of Maroni’s old contacts there, this one least of all. His usual competitors have already seen him at his lowest, they all know each other too well, and hiding such things from them is moot.

An outsider visiting his turf, however, brings nothing with him which Oswald can dissemble in turn. There’s nothing telling about Gazzo’s suit, save for the fact that it’s clearly made to measure rather than bespoke. Either the man doesn’t see the value in custom business apparel, or he’s too cheap. Regardless, Oswald is uncomfortable sharing any personal space, where his wedding photos and his parent’s portraits are on open display.

Instead, they enter an office on the opposite end of the super yacht from Oswald’s own, appropriately furnished with fine leather chairs and an immaculate desk. On the walls are various news clippings of his personal accomplishments over the past two years. The awards the lounge has won locally, as well as a photo from the casino’s ribbon-cutting ceremony just a few weeks ago. It is purposefully self-aggrandizing and wholly impersonal, meant to convey a man with power and nothing he considers more important than himself.

It is the exact image of a man Edward once described him—a man that cannot be bargained—which is why Oswald trusted the room to his machinations.

“Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” Oswald insists as he takes up his own winged-back chair behind the desk. Edward and Jeremiah casually flank him on either side as they take their seats just off center along the back wall of the room.

Gazzo eyes the arrangement appreciatively, seemingly understanding the unspoken threat. He gestures to his men with a calm hand to take a seat on the couch by the door. He then casually drops into his own chair, folding his arm over the desktop and lacing his fingers together.

“So, you’re looking to fill the empty space left behind by Sal,” he starts. “Tough act to follow, that one. Maroni wasn’t the most sophisticated guy, didn’t always know when to pull his punches, but he was reliable. Tough.”

Gazzo openly appraises Oswald with his eyes, lips curling in clearly broadcasted disapproval. He lets his unimpressed gaze wander around the room next, before he finally continues, “He was never much one for excess…thought it was akin to overcompensating, you know?” He chuckles with all the affectation of a man caught in some genuine cloud of nostalgia rather than one delivering what he believes is a well-crafted, veiled insult. “Simplicity is, after all, the ultimate sophistication.”

Davinci. _Please._

“To some, perhaps.” Oswald nods indulgently, equally pretentious as he says, “It’s true, Maroni was a man of many thoughts; most of which were, indeed, simple.”

Gazzo bites his tongue, cackling darkly, as he shakes a bemused finger in Oswald’s direction. “That’s…that’s very good.” He licks his lips. “I can see it now, you know. Played ‘im like an old deck of cards, didn’t ya?”

Oswald tilts his head. “Despite appearances, Don Gazzo, it’s never been a game to me.” He leans forward, takes in a measured breath and makes his sell. “It’s about survival, don’t you agree?”

Gazzo meets his eyes, finally a genuine spark of acknowledgement ignites there as he nods, humming. “Adapt or die,” he replies knowingly.

Oswald grins, showing his teeth. “You’ve been considering your own viability as of late, looking around at other options as the competition in Metropolis thickens.”

Gazzo’s face slips into a blank mask in an instant, but it’s far too late for that. Oswald is well aware of the man’s intentions. “I hardly think Metropolis is your concern, Penguin.”

“Oh, it isn’t,” Oswald agrees as a series of little red dots come to center over the foreheads of Gazzo’s men. “That soil isn’t nearly as fertile, is it?” 

“Are you threatening me?” he asks, eyes darting to his men who have gone from slouching back in their seats to sitting up with rigid spines.

“Of course not,” Oswald denies, all false sweetness as he smiles with some distant echo of empathy, “I’m merely offering you an opportunity to beat the competition on your own home turf. To preclude you from doing anything desperate to ensure your own survival.”

Oswald waves his hand somewhere he knows Zsasz and his men will see it, and the little red dots disappear. Funny how this particular office faces the industrial park right across the river from the Uptown Island. Oswald delights in the slump of Gazzo’s shoulders, the posture of a man who’s been bested.

He regards Oswald with a begrudging respect, a rueful tilt to his lips as he says, “Alright. What’s your terms, Mister Penguin?”

***

Oswald is still riding the high of his successful pitch, culminating in the completion of their desired distribution route. More so, however, with the expedient departure of their guests from Metropolis. Citing business at home, Gazzo had spared no time taking his leave from the casino once the details of their exchange were meted out. He happily accepted Oswald’s kind gesture of an escort for himself and his men all the way back to the airport. He'll increase his security in the coming weeks anyway, just as an added precaution. Jim’s as well, not that his husband is aware he has a security detail. 

Thinking of his husband, Oswald checks his forgotten phone and notices a series of missed calls and texts. As he reads through them, he feels the blood drain from his face.

3:17 PM: _I received some disturbing news this afternoon, call me when you get this._

3:58 PM: _The entire staff at Arkham Asylum is suffering from long-term hypnosis. Looks like Tetch._

4:15 PM: _I don’t care if you’re in a meeting, text me immediately so I know you’re not in trouble._

4:45 PM: _Jeremiah’s out. It’s possible he used Tetch to have documents forged. Made the staff forget so they wouldn’t alert anyone to his release. I’m worried about you. If he knows you helped me put him away, he could be gunning for you._

5:18 PM: _Please check your goddamned phone._

5:48 PM: _I’m heading toward the casino. You better be there._

Oswald checks the time on his phone and realizes the last one had been sent over twenty minutes ago. He puts down his champagne glass with an emphatic “Fuck,” gaining the attention of the small gathering of current felons and escapees in his actual office.

“You have to leave—now!” Oswald shouts, grabbing Zsasz and Jeremiah by the shoulders and pushing them toward the exit. As they’re closing in on the entryway, someone pounds against the doors, shaking them on their hinges.

“Oswald!” Jim is shouting from the other side, his voice clearly frantic. Oswald freezes in his tracks, mind racing for an alternate plan of action. “Oz, come on, open up!”

“Bathroom!” He whispers harshly, “Both of you, quick!”

Butch makes toward the door, hand hovering until Zsasz and Jeremiah are both closed inside. Edward straightens his tie and casually seats himself at Oswald’s desk, bowing his head over a stack of receipts. Oswald perches behind his desk, wrapping a shaking hand around his tumbler as Butch flips the lock and opens the door.

“Detectives?” Butch greets Jim, and Harvey— _shit_ —with flawless casual intonation.

He gives a subtle nod to Edward, a silent command to, under no circumstances, allow Harvey to enter the en suite restroom. Ed nods before swiveling his chair around to wave at the detectives.

“If it isn’t Gotham’s finest!” he greets cheerily, but Jim only has eyes for Oswald.

He ignores Ed entirely, strides over to where Oswald is sat behind the desk and yanks him up and into an embrace. “Fuck, you had me so goddamned worried,” he mutters, and Oswald feels a pit of guilt settle in his belly.

Granted, he didn’t ask Jeremiah how he managed to get released from Arkham, but Oswald assumed it wasn’t anything drastically diabolical. After all, there wasn’t so much as a mention of it in the papers. He suspected, upon seeing Jeremiah at his lounge office that day, that there had been some sort of escape, but he figured bribery or cunning. Hypnosis is definitely an unexpected twist. As far as worrying over retribution, like so many other alliances, there's always a risk but Jeremiah had seemed genuinely interested in using Oswald's protection as a means to redefine himself in relative solitude. Jim's worries aren't unfounded, but the do lack a certain context which Oswald isn't free to provide.

“I’m alright, Jim,” Oswald comforts, shaken by the slight tremor he can feel wracking Jim’s body. “Everything is perfectly fine. I actually was in a meeting when you texted. I must have forgotten to switch it back on afterward. I didn’t mean to cause undue worry.”

Harvey blows out a huff of air, and if Oswald didn’t know any better he’d say the man looked almost as harried as Jim. “Right, well,” Bullock says, “if you’re not in the process of being brutally murdered, then I’m heading out. It’s been a long-ass day. I take it one of you can make sure our white knight over there gets home?” he asks, looking toward Butch.

“Of course,” Edward answers for him.

Jim backs up, eyes soft as he checks Oswald over, making sure. “Sorry for crashing your celebration,” he says finally, eyes taking in the wine glasses. He looks like he might say more when his brow furrows.

“Were you expecting us?” he asks, undoubtedly noticing there are two more wine glasses on Oswald’s desk that there were people in the room when they entered. Jim’s eyes narrow as he brings them back to Oswald’s widened gaze. He swallows, tries and fails not to avert his eyes. _Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Jim,” Oswald tries to distract, “please remember that you are standing in my place of business.”

This is the wrong thing to say. Harvey takes a step back into the room, eyeing Jim as he pulls his gun. They’re both staring at the only obvious place Oswald could fit two people in a hurry. Edward places himself in front of the bathroom door while Oswald is transfixed by the way Jim’s hardened jaw clenches.

“Trust me,” Ed says, shaking his head emphatically, “you don’t want to go in there.”

“There’s something wrong with the plumbing,” Butch adds, watching the scene, lips pressed into a tense line.

Harvey waves his gun at Ed. “Shoo.”

Oswald sucks in a breath. “Edward,” he says, “allow Detective Bolluck to do his job.”

Jim’s head whips around to him, as if he’d forgotten his presence entirely. Oswald squares his shoulders and looks away, eyes fixing on the bathroom door with steely resolution. They’ve always known it would one day come to this, that Jim would have to choose between his job and his love for Oswald. He can feel his husband’s gaze, burning a hole into the side of his face, but Oswald refuses to look. Maybe it’s always been a predestined conclusion, but he can’t bear to see that choice written in Jim’s face. To acknowledge the simple truth: Jim was never going to choose him, even after everything.

And that’s fine.

Oswald accepted it long ago, the same way Jim accepted him. James Gordon is the love of his life, and Oswald bears no regret or ill will toward him for his choice. Rather, he admires the strength of his moral character, even loves him for it. Will forgive it for damning them to this fate, as surely as he must forgive his own ambitions in turn. He’s snapped out of this resigned musing when he hears the sound of a gun being holstered.

“Let’s go,” Jim says stiffly.

Oswald finally glances in his direction to see Jim now facing Harvey, whose eyes drift to Oswald fleetingly before he huffs a sigh. “Yeah, alright. Wouldn’t wanna get my good shoes ruined for nothing.”

“Jim?” Oswald asks, voice hollow to his own ears as he takes a questioning step toward his husband.

“I can’t…” Jim sighs, back still turned. “I’m gonna stay with Harvey for a couple days while we sort out this case.”

“Damn it,” Harvey mutters under his breath, then clears his throat. “Yeah, ‘s a big case. See ya around, boys.”

Oswald is stupefied, can hardly make sense of what is happening. Why aren’t they checking the bathroom? Why isn’t Jim pursuing his suspicion and arresting all of them? “Jim, wait, I—”

Finally, Jim turns to face him. He looks so torn, immeasurably hurt and so, so angry. “I can’t be around you right now,” he says, and Oswald feels his lungs compress and squeeze in his chest. “We’ll talk about…things, later.”

“What do you mean?” Oswald asks, throat closing over a well of anxiety he can’t seem to reign in. “Jim?”

Jim’s eyes are watery, but he quickly hardens his composure. “Not right now. I’m sorry.”

With that, he’s out the door, Oswald powerless to summon the words to stop him. Butch and Edward look back and forth between the now empty doorway and where Oswald stands, stricken in the center of his office. He doesn’t know what to tell them, is barely hanging on to his own mind as he ponders the possibility that his life with Jim is over. Just like that.    

“You want me to talk to him?” Butch asks, and how did he manage to get this close without Oswald realizing. He shakes his head.

Jim wants space; Oswald will respect that. He thinks, perhaps, he could use some space as well. This isn’t the first time Jim has violated the agreed upon boundaries of their relationship. It isn’t fair that he gets to leave whenever the burden of their differences becomes too much to bear. Oswald has never asked Jim to change, doesn’t storm off when Jim’s work interferes with his business or compromises his power.

“I think I’ll call it an early night, actually,” Oswald tells Butch before he turns toward Edward. “Take care of our plumbing issue, would you?”

He follows Butch back through the yacht, waits until they’re in the car headed toward the manor to retrieve his phone and fire off a text to Jim.

_Decide: Love me. Or, leave me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Names were slightly changed to protect the innocent. LOL. Google Gotham Steel, and watch the ad if you're confused by this statement. 
> 
> Aaahhh...remember when this was a story about sexy panties? I promise we'll get back to that. ~~But first...YOU ALL MUST SUFFER!!!!!!!~~
> 
> Please don't kill me. 
> 
> Just leave your thoughts in the comments or, perhaps, a kudo if you like pain...or if you like me. Or if you like the series. Or if you're feeling especially good today and wanna pass along the happy vibes.
> 
> Lols! I love hearing from you guys, so hit me up if you're feelin' it or if you want to talk about the process for this chapter, gotham or the characters!


	3. Heat in the Kitchen, Pot on the Stove; Water Getting Boiled, Dope Being Sold...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim discuss a recurring hurdle in their relationship, only for Oswald to realize he's perhaps misjudged what that hurdle is.

Jim doesn’t return his text that evening, nor is there any response by the time Oswald gives up on sleep, sun creeping up over the horizon the following morning. His eyes are dry, blinking up at the ceiling as his mind continues to whir in futility, seeking a way to make sense of Jim’s reaction. Over and over, he rewinds the confrontation, pauses at every mistake—the forgotten wine glasses, his words of warning, sounding more like a taunt than a friendly reminder—and boggles at how it could have all been avoided but for a few, small details.

Jim would be here now, slow to wake on Sunday mornings as ever, his face still lax in sleep, hair mussed from Oswald’s fingers. They would have come home together last night, Jim worked up from an afternoon of worry and Oswald more than willing to reassure him. His touch would have been fueled by desperate need, fingers pressing into Oswald’s skin with a desire to reaffirm his continued existence. What horrid scenarios did Jim imagine yesterday, Oswald wonders, that he would come to the casino shaking with their lingering hold?

Perhaps it’s just that.

Oswald had scrolled through Jim’s panicked texts, listened to his curt, harried voicemails over and over as he waited for a response. Minutes and minutes, he’d waited with his phone clutched in his hand until, finally, hours later accepted that no reply was forthcoming. Oswald had climbed into bed, haunted by the knowledge that Jim had tried repeatedly to reach him, to warn him of a potential threat, clearly beside himself with worry.

For hours.

Only then to discover that not only was Oswald perfectly safe, but actively harboring said threat. There is no doubt in his mind that Jim knew exactly who’d been hiding behind that door. Of course, Zsasz would have only been the icing on the cake. Yet, Oswald cannot puzzle out why Jim hadn’t pushed the envelope. Why hadn’t he confirmed his suspicions? Oswald had been prepared to endure it, to give Jim his win as it were.

Except Jim hadn’t taken it, and now Oswald sits in this damnable limbo, wondering what it all means. Jim had confessed, months ago, he’d never be able to send Oswald back to Arkham, and perhaps that’s what this is. He’d forced Jim to make the choice, and while that choice had resulted in Oswald’s continued freedom, to what end? If being chosen above Jim’s dedication to his badge means waking up without warm breath against his forehead and sleepy blue eyes to greet him, then Oswald would gladly turn himself in.

_‘I can’t be around you right now…’_

Why? Because Oswald chose to align himself with a potential threat rather than poke at it with a stick? Should he have turned Jeremiah away, refused to grant him any assistance, or forced his hand by acting out of fear? At least this way, Oswald has Jeremiah’s personal guarantee that no harm will come to Jim by his hand. Is that not the most responsible, logical course he could have taken?

Clearly not.

Jim won’t even grace Oswald with a simple text. The more he thinks about it, the more his depression gives way to anger. His emotions keep leaping back and forth from one end to the other, caught in a loop between extreme bouts of melancholy and indignant rage. It had been somewhat jarring at first. Now, Oswald expects it; is numb to its sweeping intensity, the urges it prompts within himself.

Jim lied to him, after all. Oswald still wears the proof around his finger—a token of acceptance his husband clearly isn’t prepared to fully bestow. He’s always telling Oswald how much he loves him, how it doesn’t matter what he is, that Jim loves that too. And yet, one misstep, and he’s gone just like that, isn’t he? Oswald has killed an uncountable number of men for less.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the passing thought. The anger isn’t surprising, but the very idea of physically harming Jim, or worse, sickens him. How can he even contemplate it, however angry he is, however justified in that anger? Oswald loves Jim with every fiber of his being, and yet he harbors such vile thoughts. This is the difference between them—the reason it is so easy for Jim to turn away from him. Because Jim does know what he is, and he tries to deny the worst of it until Oswald ends up shoving it in his face.

And this is where anger once more cedes to depression: Jim isn’t here because Oswald is an ugly, twisted thing and he never had a prayer. He could never hold onto something so beautifully imperfect as Jim. Yes, Jim is flawed; Oswald is no longer blind to that fact, but sometimes wishes he were because knowing them so intimately has only further illuminated the vastness of his own.

***

Jim’s lips curve into something soft for the first time since leaving the casino the previous night as he reads through the morning’s front-page story about Oswald’s purchase of Gotham Steel. His thumb traces the curve of Oz’s face in the accompanying photograph, and he feels tendrils of regret squeeze around his heart.

It’s a good article, the story focusing on the positive implications the purchase holds for the city. The reporter doesn’t sugar coat Oz’s history as the Penguin, the few times it is mentioned, but nor does he attribute Oswald’s changes solely to his association with Jim. Its impact is implied, but not in a shitty way, which Jim appreciates. Too often, Oswald is painted as some predator and Jim as his love-sick, unwitting victim, buying wholeheartedly into what surely must be a farcical reformation.

It is a farce, in some ways. Mostly in the way he pretends to be exactly as clueless as the papers claim. In reality, Jim’s depth of knowledge regarding Oswald’s “businesses” runs deeper than even Oz is aware. He’s privy to his husband’s coming and goings, after all, understands quite a bit of the code language Oz and Butch use to discuss business when they’re not behind closed doors.

The detective in him is always making observations, his mind working to put two and two together, the way his lungs constantly work to draw air; instinctively, and without conscious thought. He doesn’t go out of his way to amass knowledge, like some double agent (which is another running theory in the local papers). He may not be able to ignore the evidence that comes across his desk, but he isn’t going to be the one that puts it there either.

This is how they work.

Jim only interferes when it’s necessary, never takes advantage of his personal access, and Oswald doesn’t retaliate when his own operation is compromised by either poor planning or careless employees. Which is why the events of last night are so unnerving—Jim could have easily busted the lot of them. He knows if he’d opened that door, Jeremiah would have been there, and Jim would have been obligated to bring him in for questioning.

Consequently, whatever link there is between Valeska and Oz’s operations would have been unearthed in the process. Then, finally, after all this time, he’d be obligated to arrest his own husband. And for what? The pursuit of more influence? Money?

Are those ambitions really so important to Oz that he would risk everything they have for a little more of each? What other reasons could Oswald possibly have for letting someone like Jeremiah Valeska so close? Yes, his husband deals with a number of unhinged criminals on a daily basis, but the Valeskas are their own brand of crazy. Jeremiah is unpredictable at best, bloodthirsty at his worst, and at least Ed and Barbara have never tried to blow up the entire goddamned city. They actually give a shit about being caught, take care to cover their tracks but Jeremiah has no such reservations.  

This is antithetical to the way Oswald has taken to approaching his reign over the city. One wrong-footed move, and Oz could be exposed—all those tiny little threads woven together to make a tapestry of colorful offenses. Jeremiah is the knot in an otherwise perfectly sewn image, threatening to unravel the fabric of their lives with one sound pull. And Jim isn’t stupid—he knows there’s always a chance Oz will get caught, but Valeska is a wild card. So, why would he risk it? 

Jim can’t protect him if he overreaches. God, the way Oz had just stood there too, ready to accept condemnation like it was a forgone conclusion. As if it wouldn’t kill Jim to do it, and fuck but he’d been close. So caught up in the zone, after an entire day chasing loose ends and worrying about whether or not Oz was a potential target, that he’d nearly followed through on instinct alone. If Oswald hadn’t spoken, hadn’t snapped him out of it…

Fuck.

Jim isn’t doing anything to combat those expectations right now either, is he? Putting some distance between himself and the situation had seemed the best course at the time. The alternative being an enraged accusation of betrayal, escalating already fraught nerves, despite the knowledge that they’d painted themselves into this corner together. Willingly, with their eyes wide open. He knows Oswald never intended for him to find out, but he did and so now Jim’s made the choice. Forsaken his badge and betrayed the good faith of Bruce Wayne, one of the handful of people still dedicated to making sure the city doesn’t descend into the further reaches of hell, in the process.

Bruce is an ally, and a kindred spirit and it doesn’t matter if he never finds out. Jim will always know, and he has to live with that now. He let Valeska walk free, after everything he put Bruce and the people of Gotham through, for his own selfish reasons. Never mind that the charges wouldn’t have stuck—not without the mayor’s assertion that he was coerced into signing that pardon—that’s not the point. An honest cop has to try. It’s Jim’s duty to try, but if that means he loses Oz…well, he’s compromised.

And now Harvey knows it. It won’t be long before others figure it out. Someday, the public is finally going to know the truth: Jim was never brainwashed. They’re going to know that he’s always seen Oz for exactly what he is, and he’s loved him anyway; turned a blind eye, covered for him, even. It could undo everything they’ve worked toward at the GCPD. Overturn cases unrelated to his bias, the tendrils of corruption finding the holes in Jim’s reputation and using them to cripple the integrity of the law all over again. It feels like there’s a pendulum swinging ever lower above Jim’s throat.

_‘Walking in the dark with a friend is better than walking alone in the light.’_

What the hell is he doing? Hiding behind Harvey and a case that may as well be smoke in the wind. He should call Oz; should’ve called him last night to check in at the very least. He wasn’t thinking straight. Jim pats around his trousers, searching for his phone, frowning when he doesn’t feel the shape of it in his pocket.

“What…” Jim groans as it hits him.

It’s still in the car. Jim had been anxiously fidgeting with it on their way to the casino, tossing it aside the moment they arrived. It’s probably wedged somewhere in the backseat between Harvey’s collection of discarded takeout packages, forgotten in the heat of his roiling emotions. He’s shoving his feet into his shoes when the apartment door swings open.

“Hell of an article in the Gazette this morning, eh?” Harvey remarks, striding through the door with a grease stained paper bag in hand.

Jim huffs, eyes settling back onto Oswald’s photo in the paper. Something must show in his expression, because Harvey rolls his eyes before hurling a blurred, black object in his direction. Jim catches it reflexively as it collides with his ribs.

“Just call him already,” Harvey demands. “Your negative energy is ruining the feng shui.”

Jim snorts. “Yeah, right,” he says, flipping his phone open. The battery is down to a thin red line, but he sits up when he sees a waiting text from Oz. He presses the notification, and Jim feels sick as he reads it.

_Love me. Or, leave me. -O_

He finds himself with his thumbs hovering over the keys, cursor blinking expectantly in the reply box. He doesn’t know how to word a response that will convey his sincerity in a text message. After a few moments of inner debate, he closes the phone and shoves it into his pocket before grabbing his jacket.

With any luck, Oswald won’t have changed the locks.

***

Despite the overwhelming desire to do so, Oswald does not spend the day wallowing in bed. While he usually takes Sundays off, lazing around in his pajamas reading while Jim enjoys sleeping late, that isn’t an option today. Instead, he fights past the aches of his sleepless night and hauls himself into a brisk shower. It wakes him up enough that he feels somewhat livelier as he wanders around the room in his robe, debating over what to wear.

He hesitates upon opening his armoire, eyes roaming over his collection. He doesn’t feel particularly keen on dressing, period, but that’s the depression talking. It tells him there’s no use getting dressed up if Jim doesn’t wish to see him. As if that’s the only viable reason for enjoying this particular indulgence. Once upon a time, he would have listened to that voice. When Ed had broken him, Oswald allowed its insidious niggling to convince him there wasn’t a point to any of the things he used to enjoy. He believed it when it told him that he didn’t deserve it.

Well, to Hell with that.

Maybe his husband isn’t responding to his message because his phone is turned off. Maybe it’s deliberate avoidance while Jim tries to figure out if ‘irreconcilable differences’ is applicable to their situation. Whatever the case, Oswald will be damned before he lets anyone else rob him of one of the few things that bring him comfort. He’s been down that road before, knows exactly where it leads, and if donning his [fire-engine red panties](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-satin-underwear/products/the-smooth-satin-and-lace-bra?variant=8677773607018), and their coordinating accessories lend him even the slightest bit of satisfaction, it’s worth it.

It takes an absurd amount of conscious effort, but Oswald manages to push aside his turmoil by the time he’s finished dressing. Forcing himself to focus instead upon the quickly advancing plans surrounding Gotham Steel. They’ll need to begin rebranding the company almost immediately, which means at least one prepared shipment of both types of pot and a very aggressive, visible marketing campaign. Of which Oswald will be the new face.

He doesn’t have time to spare waiting on Jim to pull his head from his self-righteous ass. He’s getting a head start on Monday, and he tells himself it’s actually a good thing he isn’t wasting his weekend when there’s so much to do. He orders a car to take him to the lounge, finding it easy to throw himself into the work once he arrives.

He calls in Jean Luc, the chef he’d hired to run the kitchens at the casino and arranges for him to meet Oswald at the lounge. In addition to his responsibilities as Iceberg Casino’s Executive Chef, the man is head of the culinary arts department at Gotham University. He’s agreed to push Oswald’s certification through the American Culinary Federation in exchange for one session to prove his skill—a caveat Jean Luc insisted upon to maintain his own reputation should it ever come into question—and an assortment of baked goods he can then peddle to his overworked colleagues and their TA’s. 

Oswald plans to kill two birds with one stone, preparing and chilling the cannabutter so that it’s ready to go by the time Jean Luc arrives midafternoon. He’s set out the utensils he’ll need to prepare the baked goods, simple brownies and cake pops, as well the supplies he’ll need to make his preferred entree. He can picture the organization of the plate he’s chosen—[honey-glazed roast pork with apples](https://www.saveur.com/sites/saveur.com/files/styles/opengraph_1_91x1/public/normandy-2_2000x1500.jpg?itok=lwaOvEtR)—and has a clear plan for how to achieve it. He isn’t being formally graded, but Oswald takes great pride in presentation.

“I see you are well-prepared,” Jean Luc remarks as Frank shows him into the kitchen. “Already, I am charmed!”

Oswald chuckles, genuinely pleased with the praise. He rarely gets to showcase the skills his mother fostered, aside from when he cooks with Jim, but he hastily pushes that stray thought aside. He can’t afford distraction, especially one so unproductive. Instead, he straightens his apron and raises his chin. 

“Before all else, preparation is key,” Oswald quotes. It’s another line his mother would recite faithfully, and it has always served him well.

“Indeed, indeed,” Jean Luc agrees, his round cheeks flushed with good humor. “I can hardly wait to see what this practice yields.” He then retrieves a folded bundle of papers from his suit pocket alongside a pen and sits himself at the far end of the prep table. “Pretend I am not here and let us proceed with the exam. I have every confidence the illustrious Penguin will not fail to impress!”

Oswald smirks. “That is my MO, isn’t it?”

Jean Luc nods, and Oswald takes that as the prompt it is and sets about preheating the oven and prepping the pork. Soon enough, he indeed forgets his audience entirely. Cooking has always served as a sort of therapy, a way to calm the near-constant whirring of his mind, hone his awareness and force him to be present in a way few other things can. It works as a form of meditation, his hands working to deliberately create his vision; every action has a purpose and each step is forward.

He makes sure to clean his work surface when his roast is safely in the oven, timer set. Once he’s cleaned up that mess, he begins to make another, mixing the batter for the cake pops and tossing it into the oven. He mixes the brownies next, quickly melting the butter and sugar over the stove before adding it to the dry ingredients. The timer for the roast goes off, and Oswald pauses to wash his hands before removing it from the oven and deftly adding the apples. It will bake for another forty-five minutes, before it’s time to let it rest.

He goes on like this until the roast is finally finished and ready for serving. He plates it up, slicing it into round medallions and surrounding it with the apples before artfully covering it with the juices from the pan. Jean Luc applauds when Oswald finishes preparing his dish, snapping him back into reality with a jolt. He gives the chef a winning grin, before pouring a glass of [Trabanco](http://tedwardwines.com/producers/sidra-trabanco), a champagne cider, to serve alongside the dish.

“I must admit, I did not expect this level of expertise,” Jean Luc confides as he cuts into the pork. “You are always so busy with your other obligations, Mister Penguin.” He takes a bite then, closes his eyes and groans and Oswald feels that familiar rush of satisfaction.

“It’s true, I don’t formally practice anymore,” Oswald replies, “but…” he sighs, as he once again thinks of Jim and pushes past the tiny spark of pain it ignites, “my husband is an appreciative audience and a fairly apt pupil when he wants to be.”

Jean Luc hums, unrestrained in his enjoyment. “You are not at all out of practice, then. This is quite superb. I will see that your recertification is approved.”

Everything about this is so Oswald can maintain a believable cover to the public at large, make it appear as though rebranding is the primary cause for the profits the company is about to see. Still, there’s something so intricately pleasing about watching someone enjoy a meal he’s prepared. It’s a deep-seated human instinct; food being the center of all activity in every early civilization, after all. For Oswald, personally, sharing his dishes earned him an acceptance he’d never been granted before those classes, trading dishes with his peers as they learned the key elements of running a kitchen and presentation. It’s still just as rewarding as it was back then, if less thrilling than Oswald’s current areas of interest.

With that thought, he turns back to the counter to finish up his baked goods. The brownies only lack a few more minutes and the cake pops’ outer layer of chocolate should be solid enough now to add the drizzle. There had a been a few cracks he’d needed to patch with additional dabs of chocolate, but they appear to have filled nicely as they dried. While stoners aren’t particularly choosy about the appearance of their edibles, Oswald is particular about the state of his own work. He isn’t planning to do anything intricate, just a few stripes of white chocolate around the circumference of each pop.

Jean Luc assists him in packing up the finished edibles, and Oswald enjoys the easy rhythm they fall into. When he next looks up at the clock, it’s already after seven. He’s walking Jean Luc back out to the front of the lounge, his employees buzzing around them as they prepare for opening—always a few hours later on Sundays—when he spots Jim quietly sitting at a booth near the back. Their eyes meet, and all the calm Oswald’s collected while cooking abandons him with his next exhalation.

He feels hot and cold at once, limbs trembling and chest hollow as he finishes the trek to the main entrance and exit. Jean Luc doesn’t seem to notice the shift in his demeanor, though Oswald feels as though he is wearing his trepidation like a blinking neon light, unnerved by Jim’s sudden appearance. He hasn’t looked back to the booth his husband was occupying, but if he were to glance, Oswald knows he’d find it empty. He can physically sense the distance between them closing, tiny hairs pricking along his arms and neck.

“Thank you again for your assistance, Jean Luc,” Oswald says, forcing himself to remain calm.

“You are quite welcome, Mister Gordon,” the chef replies as he tucks his packaged edibles beneath his arm. “We must one day cook together. I feel our methods are compatible—if your husband is willing to share you, that is.”

Jean Luc’s last line is directed at a spot just over Oswald’s left shoulder, all the warning he gets before the heat of Jim’s body collides with his back. Oswald wants to close his eyes, fall back against it, cry with relief at its presence. Instead, he grits his teeth and forces another smile. “I’m certain I don’t need permission,” he says instead. “I’ll drop by the kitchen sometime soon.”

“Of course!” Jean Luc nods, accepts Oswald’s handshake, then makes his way through the exit with an exuberant, “Au revoir!”

He doesn’t check to see if Jim follows before cutting a path back toward the kitchens. There’re a few items laying around which he needs to conceal and if Jim is here to arrest him, what’s an additional charge of possession in the face of aiding and abetting? Jim follows him silently, no doubt unwilling to provide Oswald’s employees with a show. It isn’t until they are both alone behind the closed doors of the kitchen, Oswald packing up the remaining cannabutter and capping the sugar and flour cannisters, that Jim finally speaks.

“Oswald?” He says, asking for his attention.

There are many things he’d like to say in this moment, but Oswald finds it far more satisfying to say nothing at all. He ignores Jim entirely instead. After all, isn’t that his husband’s preferred method of managing their problems, few though they are to Oswald’s estimation. He is, however, less capable of controlling the force with which he slams the assortment of herbs and spices back onto the racks along the wall, shoulders tense with the strain of holding his tongue at bay. The urge to lash out is strong, passive-aggression has never been his strong suit.

He hears Jim sigh, feet padding closer, voice plaintive as he tries again. “Oswald, you have every right to be pissed at me, but can we please talk about this—”

He snaps at that. “Oh, so _now_ is a good time for you, is it?”

Ultimately, Oswald loses the battle with his emotions which he is certain surprises neither of them. The handful of flour he hurls at Jim when he swings around is perhaps less expected, but wholly satisfying. Jim blinks, eyes falling to see his suit—one of the nicer ones too, so he’s clearly been home to change while Oswald was conveniently out—covered in white cake flour, with the slightest smattering against his jaw.

“Oz, I’m—”

“You’re what!” Oswald nearly shouts, incensed. “Sorry, Jim? Sorry you didn’t arrest me when you had the chance? Or, sorry you didn’t come home last night? Forgive me my confusion, but I’m having trouble tracking the dial of your questionable moral compass.”

Jim ducks his head, shoulders slumped so penitently, and while part of him regrets that Jim feels a need to atone for the things that make Oswald love him1; another part of him rails at the implication that a little penitence is all it should take to earn his forgiveness. It’s the easiest thing, grabbing another handful of flour and lobbing it at Jim’s favorite purple tie. He bought that tie for Jim, he can ruin it if he wants to.

“Fuck you, James Gordon!” Oswald spits, when Jim’s eyes finally raise to meet his own. “How dare you waltz in here, unannounced, like you’re entitled to my time. Only ready to talk when it’s convenient for you, prepared to ignore me when it isn’t—I stayed up all night waiting to hear from you, but you couldn’t even pay me that small courtesy. Did you really think you could fix this with a few trite words of apology? I have an eidetic memory, Jim, I remember your promises and I can assure you I won’t forget just how little they’re worth to you.”

He steps into Jim’s space then, the man’s continued silence only serving to bait him further, as he jabs an accusing finger against his sternum. “You. Lied. To me. You said you knew what I was, and you promised me that I was what you wanted—you married me! And I…” his eyes sting as he feels the full wash of his foolishness sweep over him. “I believed you,” he chokes, hugging the flour closer, “but you can’t do it, can you, Jim? It’s too much, isn’t it? You want me, maybe, but I’m…too much, and you don’t—”

Jim puts a stop to Oswald’s tirade with gentle hands that come to cup his jaw. Perhaps he senses that Oswald wants to twist away from his touch every bit as badly as he wants to lean into it, because he uses Oswald’s millisecond of hesitation to push forward. He pins Oswald’s back against the rack behind him and presses their foreheads together as Oswald clutches his cannister of flour between them.

“Don’t you fucking say that,” Jim whispers harshly. “I kept my promise—you think I could just leave you? After all this time, you still think that’s how this works?”

Oswald feels his temper responding. “You’re the one that leaves, not me—”

“And I always come back,” Jim interrupts, “or haven’t you noticed, oh observant one?”

“That’s hardly the point—”

“That’s the only fucking point!” Jim argues, fairly growling in Oswald’s face. “I spent the entire afternoon yesterday thinking you were in danger. I kept picturing it in my head—someone fishing your body from the river, months from now, water logged and bloated. Or maybe, he’d mutilate your face, make it so I could only identify you by the pattern of moles on your back.

“But then I found you, safe, and you don’t know how relieved I was. Because I’ve seen what Jeremiah Valeska is capable of, and I thought we were on the same page, Oswald. But then I looked at you, and you weren’t surprised at all, not even a little worried about him being out. Drinking wine with that—” Jim breaks off, exhales sharply, “We put him away together. And I know he was in there. If I had opened that door, everything we have would be gone right now.”

Oswald lifts his chin in challenge. “We take that risk every day—”

“Not for him!” Jim stubbornly insists before taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. “After what he did…Oz, people like that—”

“People like me,” Oswald corrects quietly, meeting Jim’s hard stare with one of his own. “People like me, Jim.”

Jim blinks, face falling as his eyes widen with shock, and then inexplicable sadness. He grips Oswald by the shoulders, shaking him slightly as he says, “You are nothing like Jeremiah, or his brother. You’ve done horrible things, but you aren’t actually insane. Maybe Jeremiah is more strategic than Jerome, less maniacal, but he is every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as his brother.”

Oswald sighs. This is not what he’d been expecting. Jim isn’t struggling with the nature of Oswald’s character or even his own moral code. He hasn’t even mentioned the choice he made; Oswald above the badge.

No. Jim is genuinely troubled by this allegiance with Jeremiah, and not at all for any self-righteous obligation to justice. This is about the havoc he perceives Jeremiah could wreak upon their lives, specifically, if he so chose. It’s true, the man knows enough of Oswald’s operations now to implicate him, but that is the leap of faith he took in order to avoid exactly that type of scenario.

“I don’t know what to say to comfort you,” Oswald admits. “Except that I only take calculated risks. What do you suppose his reaction would have been when he came to me, if I had turned him away?”

Jim doesn’t have an answer for that, so Oswald adds, “This way, he owes me a debt and I have his word that no harm is ever to come to you.”

“And what about the rest of the city?” Jim asks, clearly uncomfortable with being elevated above the masses. Too bad, Oswald thinks. No one in this city is worth so much as Jim’s pinky finger as far as Oswald is concerned. He knows better than to share that particular opinion, however.

Instead he replies, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Besides, this isn’t about Valeska. If you really thought you could put him back in Arkham, you’d be out looking for him right now, trying to atone for your poor life choices.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Jim replies, tone sharp with the offense he’s taken. His eyes bore into Oswald’s for uncountable seconds, then all the anger seems to bleed out of him, softening his posture into something resembling a kicked puppy.

“Oswald, I was never going to leave you, sweetheart,” Jim says, voice just above a whisper, eyes brimming with anguish. “I know I handled it all wrong, but I wasn’t thinking clearly last night—and I know that’s not an excuse.

“And then I got your text this morning, so I went home to find you. I’ve been looking for you all day. I waited out there for hours, because I can’t stand the idea of you thinking that would actually be an option. That I’d just let you go…” Jim backs up just far enough to relieve Oswald of his cannister. He reaches up to place the flour back on the rack, then rests his hands at Oswald’s hips as he gracefully drops to his knees.

Oswald tries, ineffectually, to pull him back up. “Jim, what—”

“I’ll beg you to forgive me if that’s what you want—I’ll leave the force tomorrow, turn my back on all of it—but don’t just fucking give up on me. Not you too. Oz…”

This is not what he wants, and it breaks something inside him to see Jim so desperate to prove what Oswald already knows is true. He doesn’t know why he struggles to believe it, hates the thing inside him that always needs _more_. More proof, more assurance, more—just more.

And Jim is here, on his knees prepared to give it; willing to forsake everything he stands for if that’s what it will take to finally convince Oswald of his devotion. Jim has given him the happiest two years of his life, and Oswald issues an ultimatum after one bad night. All because Oswald is weak to his own unwarranted doubts. He’d felt justified in the moment, but now all he feels is foolish.

“I shouldn’t have sent that to you,” Oswald finally replies, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t…I didn’t mean it—”

“It’s okay if you meant it,” Jim soothes, finally climbing back to his feet. He gently pulls Oswald’s hands away from his face, brushes a kiss against his wedding band. “I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure. We haven’t had a lot of fights—and sometimes I forget that you don’t have as much experience as I do. I just expected you to understand that I needed to clear my head; I shouldn’t have been such a dick about it.”

Oswald snorts at Jim’s inelegant phrasing, charmed despite himself. They’ll need to discuss Jim’s method of clearing his head, but Oswald has other, more important things on his mind just now. He reaches up and winds Jim’s flour-dusted tie around his hand, and he comes willingly when Oswald reels him in. “Why don’t you kiss it better then?”

Jim does kiss him; threads his fingers into Oswald’s hair, tilts his head up and then slots their mouths together. There is nothing teasing about the way Jim pulls him closer, nothing light-hearted about the stroke of his tongue or the pressure of his lips. His hands slide down Oswald’s body languidly, fingers pressing in to rake against the skin beneath his clothing. They slide behind his hips, over his backside before Jim breaks away momentarily, hands gripping behind his thighs.

Oswald only just catches his intent, bracing his hands against Jim’s shoulders to help with the lift when Jim hoists him up. He winds his left leg around Jim’s waist, carefully hooking his right leg over top it. Jim turns and carries him to the prep table, lips working Oswald’s neck all the while. He sits him down with a grunt, fingers slipping up to work the knot at his apron.

Oswald is quickly becoming swept away, using his grip on Jim’s shoulders to pull him closer, head bent forward so that he’s practically curled around him. He wants Jim here and now, but the lounge opens in less than two hours, and they really can’t do this here.

“Jim,” Oswald manages to make himself say, “stop. We have to stop.”

His protests are met with a frustrated growl as Jim yanks Oswald to the edge of the table so that they’re pressed together from waist to chest. Jim kisses his way up Oswald’s neck, hands sliding up along his spine. Oswald can feel his resolve wavering, eyes closing in bliss as he rocks his hips ever so slightly into Jim’s stomach.

The doors to the kitchen swing open then, and Oswald’s arms fly up to shield Jim from view. He threads his fingers into messy blonde locks, gently hugging Jim’s head where it’s buried against his collar bone. Jim has gone still against him, and Oswald can feel the long, deep draws of his breath blown out against his skin.

Zsasz stands in the doorway, expression surprised for the barest of moments before he leans himself against the wall just inside, and then it slides into something much sleazier. “I can wait.”

Jim tenses slightly at Zsasz’s voice, while Oswald huffs with annoyance. “Victor, I assume there’s a reason you barged in here unannounced?”

Zsasz licks his lips and nods, eyes still tracking he and Jim’s telling position. “Butch called.”

“And?” He prompts impatiently.

The change in Zsasz is instantaneous, eyes laser focused as his posture shifts from relaxed to deadly in the space of a second. “There’s an…” his eyes rove over Jim, calculating, as he curves the message around his presence, “important business matter across town requiring your immediate attention. Like, immediately.”

Across town, meaning the warehouse or the docks? It doesn’t matter. He slumps in Jim’s arms, feeling so incredibly spent. All he wants is an hour—just one blissful, uninterrupted hour with his husband so they can reclaim a tiny bit of their Sunday. Enjoy a little make-up sex…Is that so much to ask? Can’t Victor just go over and shoot everyone?

Before he can make the mistake of asking that question aloud, Jim jolts against him, backing away from the shelter of Oswald’s arm to rummage in his trouser pockets. He gives Oswald a quick peck on the lips before shooting Victor a wary glare as he flips open his phone.

“Gordon.”

At this distance, Oswald can hear Harvey’s beleaguered voice through the receiver. “Got a situation down in East End. SCU’s gearing up to intervene.”

“What is it?” Jim asks, making no effort to hide his frustration.

“Shoot out over by the old Packard plant.”    

It is only through years of practice that Oswald manages not to outwardly react. He meets Victor’s eyes above Jim’s head, where it’s bowed paying apt attention to whatever information Harvey is imparting.

Oswald silently mouths, ‘What. The fuck?’

Zsasz rolls his eyes. ‘GAH-ZOH,’ he mouths back, and Oswald can feel himself slipping into familiar, quiet rage. How dare that greedy bastard make such a bold move against him, threatening to ruin his carefully laid plans.

When Jim flips his phone shut, Oswald attempts to affect an innocently curious expression. Jim’s eyes narrow, slowly appraising him before quirking an eyebrow. “Where exactly across town did you say your situation was?” he asks cheekily.

Oswald shrugs, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he says, turning his gaze to Zsasz. “Victor?”

Victor smiles facetiously, cryptically offers, “Across town.”

Jim sighs, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to Oswald. “I’ll see you at home later, then?” he asks, and never has this particular question had so many layers.

Oswald plasters on a grin Jim will recognize as forced, but that’s rather the point. A wordless warning. “Of course.”

Jim snorts, leans in to press a quick kiss to Oswald’s forehead, then his lips. “Be careful,” he mutters quietly, only for their ears.

Oswald smiles tiredly. “I’ll see you at home,” he promises.

Jim takes his leave then, glancing back at Oswald for a prolonged moment before shouldering past Victor on his way out. Oswald is momentarily distracted by figuring out the best way down off the prep table until Zsasz offers him an arm. He eyes the man suspiciously for a brief second before conceding to the lack of a less awkward alternative. Once he’s found his feet and divested himself of his apron, Oswald takes off toward his office.

“Car’s that way, Boss,” Victor says, pointing toward the exits as they enter into the barroom of the lounge from the kitchen.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he retorts curtly. “I need to fetch my umbrella.”

“It’s…not raining?”

The confusion evident in Victor’s tone brings a smile to his face. Darkly, he replies, “Oh, but it will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Meaning Oswald loves Jim's morals, though they often find them at odds professionally and sometimes personally. He doesn't want Jim to change, and this just kind of recognizes that he's up against pushing for Jim to manage their differences better without asking him to change the things that make him the kind of person he is. Does that make sense? I wasn't sure, that's why I flagged it.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading. Please do leave kudo and/or comment if you can. I love talking to you guys about ALL THE THINGS. <3 
> 
> Also, sorry for the big gap between updates. It's hard to write between preparing for camp and we left for an impromptu trip last weekend and I don't know. I didn't have as much time to write last week!
> 
> PS—prompts are open. They do not need to be related to this series, but I’m currently open to Gobblepot, and even OT3, whatever ur OT3 involving Gobblepot might be. :) you can drop one here or in my ask on tumblr, I’m Facemeetpalm, linked in my about page.


	4. Straight Outta Gotham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The final showdown between Oswald and Gazzo, and a brand new development in Jim and Oz's relationship, for better or ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First 2/3 is from Oz's POV, then we end with a little bit of Jim's POV. I hope you've enjoyed the ride, and that it didn't cross over too far into the realm of the unbelievable, though with some of the shit DC has done, I really, really don't think it does but if it did--and I've totally ruined the series for you with my escapades--I'm super sorry, but I'm actually, personally, pretty happy with how this turned out.
> 
> Sorry about the delay, truly. I had some issues changing my brain from action scene to sex scene which resulted in like, five goddamned rewrites. Good lord.

The drive to old Park Row is fraught with tension as Oswald contemplates the situation. “Are we certain these are our Metropolis friends?”

“Butch took a wallet off one,” Victor confirms. “Had an address in the Big Apricot1.”

“How the hell did Gazzo’s men manage to give you the slip on the way to the airport yesterday?” Oswald doesn’t attempt to hide his skepticism as he eyes Zsasz critically from where they’re both bracing themselves against the doors of the sedan’s backseat. Frank is breaking every traffic law in existence to haul them down to East End, hopefully before the cops arrive to make an even bigger mess. Or, worse, land him in more hot water with Jim.

“They didn’t,” Zsasz replies flatly, eyes narrowed. Oswald believes him. Victor may have betrayed him over Sophia’s lies, but they’ve always had a certain level of understanding. The man takes pride in his work, and the fact that Gazzo apparently pulled one over on him is eating him alive.

Oswald huffs a sigh, voices his true suspicions. “He’s been planning this from the start. The meeting was a distraction to conceal his true purpose.”

“Which is?” Zsasz asks irritably.

“To steal from me,” Oswald replies simply. “To make me look weak, destabilize my position among my peers. It isn’t enough to have a role in our operation; Gazzo wants a slice of Gotham itself. He’s hoping my allies will turn on me if they believe I’m compromised, so he can swoop in and collect a portion of my territory during the upheaval.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Boring.”

“Convoluted,” he corrects. Oswald pulls on his gloves, noticing they’ve turned down the street adjacent to Crime Alley, and adds, “Sloppy.”

Oswald is relieved to discover that Harvey meant the words ‘by the old Packard Plant’ literally. He can hear the familiar crack of gunfire in the near distance, perhaps just the next street over, but there’s no hint of movement around his actual warehouse. Either Gazzo’s men are incredibly dull, or this entire ambush was hatched over false information. Oswald already has a few suspicions over where such information might have been gathered.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he and Zsasz carefully duck out of the car and take cover in the alley just at the end of the cross-street. They flatten themselves against the wall, Victor eyeing the rooftops for potential threats to their position. Oswald flips open his phone, and the gunfire sounds much louder over the receiver.

“Butch!” He exclaims in a whispered frenzy. “Where are you? There’s no one here!”

“One street over,” Butch replies, breath labored. “They’ve got me pinned down at Stanford and Fifteenth.”

Oswald bites his lip, considering their options. There’s another burst of gunfire, echoing in the streets and over the receiver before he finally decides. “We need to draw them further away,” he says into the phone, eyes on Victor as the man finds a low-hanging ladder that leads to the rooftops, “before the GCPD arrive and turn the entire block into a crime scene.”

“GCPD?” Butch echoes, then, “Fuck! Hang on.” There’s the indistinct sound of a scuffle, muffled grunts and then a tell-tale ‘thud’ before Butch is back. “Think I just gave away my position.”

“Lead them to Columbia Street,” Oswald orders. “We’ll meet you there.” He flips his phone shut, shoves it into his pocket and pops his umbrella. He turns to Victor. “You know what to do.”

“Yay!” Victor gives a two-finger salute before he stealthily climbs the ladder, black leather duster billowing behind him.

Oswald rolls his eyes, then presses his back to the wall, umbrella held out like a shield just high enough that he can peak over the rim as he slides around the corner, and carefully makes his way toward Butch’s location. There’s a connecting alley between Crescent and Columbia, but Oswald will have to risk crossing the street to get to it first. He looks up to see Zsasz give the all clear before darting across as quickly as his bad leg will carry him. He doesn’t hear the shots, but there’s the unmistakable collision of bodies hitting pavement just as he finds shelter in the darkness of his destination. He peaks around the corner of the alley, chest heaving with adrenaline, to see two men he doesn’t recognize laying in the street.

His eyes dart from building to building until he catches sight of Zsasz scaling his way down the side of an old apartment complex. He doesn’t wait around to watch the man clean up, trusts that he’ll follow quickly, before advancing down the alley toward where Butch has hopefully managed to kite Gazzo’s interlopers. So much for their Metropolis distribution center. Then again, Barb has a client that calls upon her to fence the odd, questionably acquired, antique weapon—anything from ancient daggers to highly-sought after firearms. Oswald has granted his assistance in pushing those items often enough to know the name: Luthor.

It’s a query for another time.

There’s a bright green dumpster up ahead, and Oswald can see sparks flying off its surface as it is pummeled with bullets. Butch is squatting behind it, but there’s a five-foot gap between him and the alley in which Oswald is currently hidden. He’s about to call out when there’s the sudden wail of sirens in the distance, and Oswald knows their time is limited.

The gunfire halts, voices shouting, “Cops!” as the men scatter. Oswald takes it as his chance to dive into the street, umbrella once again shielding his most vital areas, as he joins Butch behind the dumpster.

He hears, “’Ey! It’s him! I got eyes on Penguin!”

“Damn it.” Butch groans, shaking his Glock. “I’m out. You got anything?”

Oswald closes his umbrella, secures it shut with the button strap, then clutches the handle. He pushes the canopy up the shaft then pulls it back down until it clicks. “Just my umbrella.”

Butch arches a brow. “Is there a rocket-launcher in there? Because…I could really go for some heavy fire power right about now.”

“Not quite,” Oswald replies, listening carefully for the approach of feet against the rough pavement of the street. It’s fruitless, however, the approaching sirens drowning out all other noise.

Butch huffs, looking around for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. Oswald clutches his umbrella to his chest like the rifle it secretly is, tip pointed up toward the sky as he waits for Gazzo’s men to give away their position in some discernible way. The flashing red and blue lights disrupt the shadows on the street, so that Oswald can’t discern an advantage from their shape. He and Butch eye one another, before they slowly shift onto their knees.

Butch silently counts to three with his fingers, and they both peak their heads over the rim of the dumpster. Immediately, bullets begin to rain down upon them from the other side of the street, and they both drop back down behind cover. On a positive note, there are only two of them and Oswald knows their position now. On a less than positive note, neither he nor Butch are marksmen, and he’s only got two bullets to spare.

There’s no room for error here.

Oswald doesn’t typically carry a traditional firearm, can’t afford the risk of keeping a stash of illegal weapons close by and there wasn’t time to stop. His men are his guns, after all. Speaking of…

“Where the hell is Zsasz?” Oswald whispers impatiently.

“I have no idea,” Butch replies, exhausted, as he gestures to Oswald’s umbrella, “but are you gonna use that thing or cuddle with it?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult me,” Oswald drily returns. “I don’t have the bullets to waste on you, presently.”

Butch holds up his hands, palms out in concession. Oswald rolls his eyes, climbs into a squat and positions his finger just outside the firing mechanism. He then swings out from the side of the dumpster, takes aim at where he remembers the closest of Gazzo’s men standing, and fires. His twenty-two round catches the man in the neck, and Oswald rolls back behind cover, managing to escape the flurry of bullets that follow.

“Come out and fight me like a man!” The remaining goon challenges. Oswald will give him credit for determination; the rest of his cohorts having fled at the sound of incoming sirens while he’s stayed behind to try and finish the job. He has good odds too, given that he and Butch now only have one bullet between them. Still, Oswald isn’t about to make it easy for him.

He’s about to jump up and take another shot from over the top this time, when he hears: “GCPD, put the gun down, and get on your knees!”

_Jim._

“I ain’t afraid to kill no Gotham pig!” Gazzo’s man shouts back.

There’s the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, and Oswald feels his heart seize in his chest. He’s climbing to his knees, prepared to expose himself and shoot the bastard while he’s distracted, if that’s what it takes to protect his husband. Butch grips his wrist and yanks him back before he can stand.

“Let’s go!” Butch whispers forcefully. “Jim can handle himself.”

He isn’t wrong. Jim can absolutely manage one unwieldy gangster, but just as Oswald is considering heeding Butch’s advice, another voice sounds from the alley Oswald had come through himself not too long ago.

“Looks like we got ourselves a bit of a standoff.” The man raises a revolver, aims it Oswald’s face, eyes averted to where surely Jim must be standing with his own gun pointed at this man’s accomplice. “How’s about a trade, officer? My guy, for yours?”

There’s a beat of silence, then a hesitant, “Oswald?” as Jim seeks to confirm his presence.

Oswald looks the new guy dead in the eyes, lips pressed firmly together, and says nothing. Butch follows his lead, every bit as stubborn as Oswald on a good day, raising a middle finger that he can just see in his peripheral. The man takes a step forward, incensed, finally clearing the alley and entering the street.

“You’re bluffing,” Jim responds, authority radiating from every syllable as he offers, “give it up and come quietly. The rest of your buddies are already being rounded up. Charges so far are disturbing the peace and discharging firearms in public. You can post bail and go home. There’s no need for things to get messy.” 

“Get up!” New Guy shouts, ignoring Jim’s calm negotiation, face contorted in anger as he shakes his revolver toward the two of them. “Get up or I swear to God I will fucking shoot you!”

Oswald narrows his eyes, uses every bit of sass he possesses to mouth back, “NO!”

A few things happen in quick succession. Oswald reopens the umbrella’s canopy as New Guy attempts to make good on his promise. The bullet glances off, pinging against the side of the dumpster, two more following immediately. He glimpses Zsasz, then, running along the roof of a nearby building before coming to a stop just above their position. He grins at Oswald, takes aim at the ground and then Oswald is staring at the lifeless eyes of his would-be killer from just under the rim of his umbrella.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Butch mutters under his breath, catching sight of Frank and the black sedan pulling up to the curb behind them. “Let’s go!”

Oswald nods, once again taking cover beneath his umbrella as they make a crouching approach toward their escape. He can’t help glancing back, however, breath whooshing out as he sees another goon appear from the same alley Jim had entered from, coming to flank him from behind.

Oswald doesn’t hesitate this time; closes the canopy, aims and fires. He misses the man behind Jim, and time seems to slow as he watches in horror as Jim drops to his knees in pain, hand clutching his shoulder. The man Jim had been focused on falls to the ground, bullet lodged in his brain, as Zsasz drops down from a nearby fire escape to cap the other one. He sprints toward Oswald while Jim is distracted, grabs him by the arm, and all but drags him bodily to the car before shoving him into the backseat. Once Victor has shut them all inside, they’re spinning away from the curb with a squeal of burning tires.

Frank turns them down a connecting alley, taking them around a blockade at the end of the street. Oswald risks a glance out of the rear window, eyes flying back to where they’d just departed. He can barely make out Jim’s silhouette, kneeling down where he and Butch had been hiding just moments before. He slumps back down, head colliding with Butch’s arm where they’re both sprawled over the seat.

Oswald hasn’t accidentally murdered his own husband, at least.

So, there’s that.

“Victor,” he says, too exhausted to feel the true depth of his rage though he is unspeakably livid. “How would you like an all-expenses-paid trip to Metropolis?”

“Sounds like a blast, Boss.”

***

It’s already quite late by the time Oswald turns his key in the front door of the manor; he knows Jim will be much later if he decides to come home at all. He will need to coordinate the efforts toward containing the scene of the shootout while forensics does their job. Perhaps he will even return to the station to file his report. Unless, that is, Oswald has managed to send Jim to the hospital with his poorly aimed shot. Surely, someone would have called if that were the case.

Wouldn’t they?

The query gives him pause as he reaches the second floor, planning to retire his suit for the evening though sleep will undoubtedly allude him. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and flips it open to check for any missed calls or texts. There’s nothing, and he’s pressing open his contacts list without any real conscious though. His thumb hovers over Jim’s name for a moment before he gives in and presses it.

There’s one ring, two, and then straight to voicemail. Oswald frowns. If the man is well enough to ignore him, then perhaps he shouldn’t worry. Still, he scrolls up the list a hair, then dials Harvey instead.

“The Hell do you want, Penguin?” Bullock’s voice is quietly harried, clearly trying to avoid being overheard when he answers.

He isn’t sure what to say to that, not that there isn’t a slew of spiteful replies on the tip of his tongue. It’s a matter of knowing when to pull a punch, which isn’t something Oswald is adept at when his emotions are running this wild. He needs to know if Jim is alright, is entitled to the information as his spouse, but he’s the one that caused the injury. And Jim clearly doesn’t want to talk to him; the fact that he’d had to call Harvey at all…

There’s a heavy sigh against the receiver, then Harvey says, “He’s fine. EMT’s are patchin’ him up. Prob’ly be outta here in an hour or so.”

Oswald wants to ask what he means by ‘patching him up,’ inquire as to the extent of Jim’s injury, but he can’t seem to form any words around the lump in his throat. He flips the phone shut instead, allayed of his most pressing fear at least. Oswald is certain his aim was just slightly low; his bullet having lodged itself in the forehead of his intended target after all. Jim couldn’t have been more than grazed, but there’s a pit of anxiety furling in his belly nonetheless. Oswald had meant to save Jim, but he could have ended him just as easily by mistake.

His imagination is far too vivid, and the scene comes to him in striking detail; where, instead of low, his bullet flies left. Jim’s hand goes to his neck instead of his shoulder, blood gushing from his carotid artery, slipping wet between his fingers. He watches him bleed out in the street, dead in minutes as a result of Oswald’s own poor foresight.

His eyelids squeeze shut, a reflex that does nothing to shield him from the horrors that play out behind them. He reopens them swiftly, forces himself to focus on what’s in front him, on something tangible and real, instead. Their empty bed is real enough, and Oswald longs to crawl into it and wait for Jim to join him. He takes a deep breath, feels the weight of his anxiety recede just enough for his senses to focus on other stimuli. Most notably, the stench of dumpster and sweat clinging to Oswald’s suit and skin.

He wrinkles his nose before hastily peeling himself out of his soiled clothes. He doesn’t bother with folding, wads it all up—tie and all—and throws them into the hamper. He crosses to his armoire, retrieves something clean and comfy, then shuts himself into the bathroom as if to barricade his existence from reality. He draws a bath just outside of scalding and pretends, for as long as he’s within these four walls, that the world has stopped spinning. Life is paused just for him, and it’s either allow this flight of fancy or give himself over to self-loathing.

Jim will need to be taken care of when he arrives, and Oswald is not going to burden him with his own troubled thoughts. He wasn’t the one injured by his own husband while trying to selflessly contain a dangerous situation, after all. A situation that could have been avoided if not for Oswald’s overconfidence. He’d showed his hand too early in his meeting with Gazzo, revealing his security measures only making his opponent’s deception easier to conceal. If he’d not been so quick to intimidate the man into conceding, perhaps his intent would have broadcasted at some point during their negotiations. Instead, Oswald all but facilitated this plot with his own impatience.

He will paint the walls with Gazzo’s blood for this.  

For now, Oswald consoles himself with the fact that Jim is safe along with Oswald’s secret warehouse. The only current threat to their continued happiness is how he handles the fallout from this evening. As he washes the grime from his skin, he vows to face Jim’s inevitable upset with acceptance and all due contrition.  

***

The house is quiet when Jim lets himself in, hanging on to consciousness by sheer force of will. Thank God Harvey had forced him into a taxi, rather than let him drive back from the station as he’d been planning. He’d only spent about five minutes in the locker room shower at the MCU, careful not to get his bandaging wet, but it’d been long enough to dissolve his remaining adrenaline. He didn’t have a bag of spares there, and dressing in department-issue sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt after had only served to make him more likely to fall asleep behind a wheel.

Groggily, he climbs the stairs; one hand gripping the rail with far more care than usual while the other remains shoved in the pocket of his sweatpants. His fingers fiddle with its contents—a couple of small shells from twenty-two rounds he’d found behind a dumpster. If there was even a miniscule doubt in his mind as to who they belonged, Jim would have submitted them to evidence. Of course, that would have been the honest thing to do regardless. Let them go to ballistics, see if there’s a match between them and any of the slugs they pull out of the guys in the alley. Try to build ballistic evidence against whoever fired the shots.

Evidence against Oswald.  

They’ll discover the rifling pattern of a twenty-two-caliber long rifle, be on the lookout for any firearms that meet that description; not a goddamned umbrella. Still, Jim considers swapping the barrels to err on the side of caution. Who knows how many of Oz’s men saw him use it, and which can be trusted not to implicate him if it comes down to the wire.

 _Christ_.

It’s been just over two years since their last close call like this, where Oswald found himself actively engaged with, if undetected by, the police. Back then, Jim had been so torn, caught between his obligation to the law and his feelings. It’s maybe a little unsettling how much he isn’t conflicted about it now, contemplating how best to cover for Oz’s presence at the scene.

Jim may not have seen him with his own two eyes, but Oswald was there, with the weapons Jim had provided himself. They were intended for self-defense, and that’s precisely how they’d been used. With the exception of the man he’d shot to save Jim, that is, which he supposes still counts.

He just wishes Oswald hadn’t seen fit to put himself in a position to use it at all.  He understands there are certain issues that ‘require a personal touch,’ as Oz would say, and that’s true for both of them. But Oswald doesn’t directly handle anything that isn’t incredibly sensitive. Which the begs the question: Which operation is Oz hiding in East End?

Jim is still pondering the possibilities when he gently pushes the bedroom door open. His eyes go immediately to the bed, expecting to see the familiar shape of Oswald beneath the covers, brow furrowing when he finds it neatly made. A muffled cough catches his attention, and he turns his head toward their master bathroom to see light filtering out beneath the door. Relief loosens his spine—the short-lived case of his missing husband resolved—as he fishes his phone from his other pocket.

Alas, following a night spent in Harvey’s car and a brief forty minutes of charge this morning, his phone did not last the night. He crosses the room to his side of the bed, fishing his cable out from behind the nightstand, and plugs it in. He’s impatiently pressing the power button, willing the battery to register at least one percent of charge so he can turn it on like a responsible Police Captain, when the bathroom door creaks open behind him.

He turns to see Oswald stood in the doorway, looking immaculate as ever. His hair is still wet but combed neatly against the side of his face, bangs pointing down toward the pale expanse of his bare neck. Sharp blue eyes are made all the starker by the dark navy satin of his robe, hanging open at his shoulders over a matching ankle-length [gown](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vwT4nOgXWcE/WF4eZNrCmGI/AAAAAAAA4zc/FsiuUjH5C_w_t4hJ37bU0DxlYa_ajJL1ACLcB/s1600/32be385d29cdf3488df47aa328323b6b.jpg).

Jim’s phone buzzes in his hand, finally turning on though he’s all but forgotten its importance. He sits it aside and takes a step forward, which seems to jolt his husband back into awareness. Oz pulls his robe closed, tying it with jerky fingers before crossing his arms over his middle. It’s oddly defensive body language, and Jim is far too punch-drunk to decipher its meaning.

Oz smiles, that thousand-watt farce he beams at the press on the regular, and Jim feels his eye twitch as he stops short. Jim knows that look, and he is not in the mood to be manipulated; fuck, it isn’t even necessary. He isn’t even mad, not really. And he knows they need to talk about what happened, but Jim is dead on his feet and all he wants is to go to bed. Fuck, can’t it all just wait for a good six hours? 

Oswald’s eyes dart around the room as if looking for an escape—a sort of blink and you miss it action that Jim only catches because if he does blink, he’s passing the fuck out. He watches Oz straighten his shoulders with resolve before he tilts his chin up and cheerfully asks, all false innocence, “How was your impromptu work night?”

Jim can feel his jaw working, and it isn’t about being caught up in a yet another shootout together. May as well be a day that ends in ‘y’ as far their history is concerned. It’s the act—the polished, pristine, bullshit act that Oz wields against his opponents when he wants to distort his actual feelings. And Jim can admit that he admires his husband’s ability, but now he’s got it turned onto Jim, and that makes it infinitely less charming.

“How was my night?” Jim repeats, hand sliding into his pocket to clutch those spent shells, as he takes a few steps forward. He lets his lips curl into a mean smile as he pulls them out and tosses them flippantly onto the floor at Oswald’s feet.

Oz glances down, face beginning to color when he catches sight of the spent casings. “I—”

“You fucking shot me!” Jim interrupts irritably. “That’s how my fucking night was!”

“I was aiming for the bastard behind you!” Oswald yells back, and there’s fire in his eyes when they snap up to meet Jim’s stare, brimming with indignation; something authentic, at last. “I was trying to save you!”

“Yeah?” Jim asks, pitching his voice low before he growls. “You missed!”

Oswald’s face screws up, and for a minute, Jim isn’t sure if he’s going to shout or start crying. Anger wins, and Oz demands: “Duck next time!”

He isn’t sure who moves first, but there’s about a half a minute where they just stand there, staring one another down. And there’s something so nostalgic about it, that for a second, he’s back there—years ago—facing down the Penguin and he feels it. That familiar urge, to shut him up, one way or another—body gearing up in anticipation, heart thumping with adrenaline while that tiny little voice whispers: _do it_.

But this isn’t years ago, and Jim doesn’t see fit to fight it. He’s got Oz pinned up against the wall, or Oswald’s reeled him in—it doesn’t matter. He’s still itching for that tiny flame they kindled in the afternoon and it doesn’t take much fuel to reignite it into a full blaze—Oz shoving hands down the back of Jim’s sweats, lips and teeth plotting a desperate trail along his collar.

Jim bunches up the skirt of Oswald’s gown, pulling it higher inch by inch until he’s got it all the way up above his hips. He didn’t bother with panties, it seems, and Jim hums with appreciation. He bunches up the skirt in one hand, holds it aside so he can cup a hand under Oz’s bare sack. Jim squeezes his testicles gently before he makes a fist and pushes his middle finger back along Oz’s perineum in the tight space between his closed thighs.

Oswald’s grip on Jim’s ass tightens, fingers pressing into his flesh with bruising force as he pulls away from sucking Jim’s throat with a low groan. They’re right next to Oswald’s armoire, and Jim pulls his hand away to throw open a door. There’s a bag on the upper shelf that he pulls down. Oswald is on to him, and while their bed is literally just feet away, neither of them mentions it as Oz digs through the bag to retrieve an unopened bottle of lube.

“Hold this,” Jim says, gently shaking the bunched-up fabric in his hand.

Oz takes the skirt, leans back against the wall and starts to spread his legs as he asks, “Do you want—”

“No, no, together like they were,” Jim instructs, tearing the little foil seal off the lube with his teeth. Oswald complies, but he regards Jim with a warily arched brow. His expression only grows more confused when Jim attempts to slick his thighs with lube.

“What the hell—”

Jim huffs, cutting Oswald short with a kiss. He wraps a slick hand around Oz’s hardening cock, startling a gasp from his lungs. “Trust me?” Jim asks against his lips.

Oswald closes his eyes, bucks up into Jim’s loosened grip as he nods. “Yes, fine. Just do it already, whatever _it_ is.”

Jim doesn’t delay, slides his hand down and between Oswald’s thighs, gets it nice and wet. He then finds Oz’s free hand with his own and drags it down. “Touch yourself,” he says, helping him get it positioned comfortably between them.

“Jim…” Oz mumbles breathlessly. There’s an apology in his eyes, teeth clenched as he strokes himself against the wall.

Jim hastily pushes his sweats down, just over his ass to free his own cock, before stepping back into Oz’s space. “That’s alright,” Jim tells him, guiding himself slowly between those slick thighs. “I’m not gonna last long either—fuck!”

Everything about it is smooth and soft—it should have occurred to him to try this the second Oz started waxing. Jim presses in as close as he can, feels the drag of Oswald’s knuckles along his stomach as he methodically pumps his cock between them. His head is thrown back against the wall, eyes shut as he takes deep, open-mouthed breaths.

Jim licks along the column of throat bared before him, up then slightly back until his lips find the soft lobe of Oz’s ear. He wonders how it feels for Oz, Jim’s cock sliding along his sack, head passing just under his hole, never pushing any closer.

He glances down into the small space between them, licks his lips when he spies the wet, flushed head of Oswald’s uncut cock, peaking in and out of its foreskin with every pull. His own dick gives a throb at the sight, has him groaning in response.

“You feel so fucking good,” Jim finds himself saying, always running his mouth when things get heated. Doesn’t matter if they’re fighting or fucking, Jim likes watching Oswald squirm when he manages to get under his skin.

 Oz doesn’t disappoint, brow knit as he finds Jim’s gaze and asks, “What—what’s it feel like?”

Jim isn’t sure Oswald wants the answer to that question, but he figures his bisexuality is no secret. May as well be honest. Jim licks his lips, squeezes Oz’s ass before he finally answers.

“Feels like fucking a wet pussy,” he replies, voice low and gravelly even to his own ears.

Oswald’s mouth drops open, but Jim isn’t sure if it’s from shock or because he’s been scandalized. Jim knows Oz has never been with a woman, that he doesn’t understand the comparison. But he’s looking down where their bodies meet, where Jim’s pushing his cock between his legs nice and slow, openly curious.

“Feels wet,” Jim supplies, running his hand down Oswald’s ribs, fingers catching on the smooth, silky fabric of his gown. “Hot. So fuckin’ soft…”

Oz’s hand slows between them, eyes carefully averted. “Is that…” he clears his throat, asks quietly. “Do you miss…women?”

Jim doesn’t get offended at the question, though it is reminiscent of some less than flattering misconceptions regarding his sexuality. Despite all the things they’ve tried together, Oswald is still astoundingly naïve about certain things. He understands that everyone has preferences, but there are times he displays a clear lack of understanding in regard to the nuances. He wonders if Oz has ever considered his own sexual identity, if he could put a name to it if asked. Jim has his suspicions, but it’s never really come up.

“No,” Jim patiently replies, pressing a reassuring kiss to Oswald’s lips. “That’s not how it works, sweetheart. It’s just a different kind of sensation,” he tries to explain, before pulling away. “You want to try it on me?”

 Oswald furrows his brow, considering before he nods. “Okay.”

Jim gives him a wink, receiving an eye roll in return, before slicking his own thighs. He trades places with Oz, pressing his back against the wall, and braces an arm against the armoire before kicking his legs out just slightly and crossing them at the ankle. Jim takes hold of Oswald’s gown as he approaches, enjoys the way the robe tickles his skin where it falls around them. His free hand holds his own aching cock out of the way as Oz slowly slides himself between Jim’s thighs.

He hears the unguarded stutter in his husband’s breath, the quietly whispered ‘fuck’ as he comes to rest against Jim entirely. It’s an overwhelming feeling, and while the physical aspects—the press of Oswald’s cock beneath the weight of his sack, the glide of his skin along Jim’s perineum within tempting proximity to his entrance—are altogether satisfying, it’s the intimacy that edges him all the closer.

There’s this added layer of trust, an unguarded innocence that accompanies Oswald’s approach to learning Jim’s body. It’s a wonder they still find new things to explore with one another, but it’s an almost constant exchange. Maybe it’s that neither one of them were ever afforded the opportunity to explore themselves when they were younger. Maybe it’s just that Jim’s got rose-tinted vision where Oswald is concerned. Whatever it is, Jim is enraptured by it.

He abandons his own insistent cock in favor of brushing Oswald’s bangs back into place. It gets his husband’s attention, at any rate, and they share a besotted smile. Oz ducks his head, blushing, and Jim knows his expression must be overly fond.  

“That is…” Oz is clearly struggling for the words to describe this new sensation Jim has shown him, and that in itself is a reward. “How is it so…different?” he muses aloud, flushing when he realizes he’s done so.

Jim chooses that moment to squeeze his thighs.

“Oh!” Oswald yelps. That seems to be all the nudging he needs, mood shifting from exploratory to intent.

 Jim hums, closing his eyes as Oswald begins to move, seemingly entranced by the experience. Jim uses his grip on Oswald’s shoulder to pull him closer, wants to feel more of that body-warm satin against his nipples. He isn’t anticipating the pressure that wraps itself around his cock a moment later, and he jolts at the unexpected shock of pleasure.

His eyes snap open to see Oswald grinning up at him, leaning in to claim Jim’s lips for himself. He opens to it immediately, groans when Oswald’s tongue meets with his own. Oswald’s hands are all over his body, soothing and caressing, and it’s then that relief washes over him. They’ve survived, managed to overcome yet another Gotham-shaped obstacle, and Jim can finally breathe again.

He feels his climax cresting, and it was never going to last—Jim’s too tired, too strung out from a stressful weekend to exert the will necessary to withhold. He feels Oswald grow frantic against him, and Jim throws his head back and comes. Those hands that handle Jim so deftly, grip his hips and hold him steady. Oswald drives forward against him, over and over, until finally he stills, hips jerking minutely as he spends between Jim’s thighs. He’s quick to pull Oz’s gown out of the way, saving it from being smooshed against his own sticky stomach when Oswald slumps against him.  

Jim uncrosses his ankles, so he can bear their combined weight more easily. He rubs a hand up and down Oswald’s back, rests his chin against the crown of his head. It isn’t horribly uncomfortable, but soon enough his exhaustion begins to slowly creep back into his bones. Oz’s breaths seem far too measured when Jim’s recovered enough to notice, though he can’t confirm those suspicions seeing as his face is buried in Jim’s arm pit.

“Hey,” Jim mutters to no avail. Louder, he urges, “Hop up or I’m gonna use your gown to wipe off.”

 That does the trick, but barely. Oz groans as he pushes himself up and away, freeing Jim from the wall. Jim passes him the gown he’s been chivalrously safeguarding from stains and stumbles off toward the bathroom. He pretends he doesn’t hear Oswald sniggering at his expense.

Later, when they’re finally ensconced beneath the covers, Oswald curled up to Jim’s side with his head pillowed on his shoulder, his mind drifts back to the shootout. Oz’s fingers are trailing along Jim’s ribs, just on the other side of tickling, and Jim captures them with his own, threading their fingers together over his stomach.

“What was Metropolis organized crime doing in Gotham?” Jim finally asks, not accusatory, but genuinely curious. If he had any intention of arresting Oswald, he’d have done it the second he found those shells behind the dumpster. That train has well and truly left the station, he’s afraid.

Oswald sighs, a gentle puff of air that softly gusts across the sparse hair of his chest. “I’ve been expanding,” he explains, shocking Jim with his honesty.

They don’t do this. Ever. After the weekend they’ve had, however, Jim thinks maybe they should start. So, he squeezes Oswald’s shoulders and plants a kiss into soft, black hair.

“Not going so well?” he sardonically inquires.

His question is met with a derisive snort. “I don’t even know where to start.”

But the thing is, he does start. He tells Jim all about a warehouse he sort-of owns down in the East End, one that’s full to the brim with pounds and pounds of marijuana—‘Go ahead, Jim, phone it in. I’m sick of dealing with it at this point.’—that he’s exceeded the distribution capacity of the city, and how he’s been trying to peddle it off to some of Maroney’s old contacts.

He tells Jim about Gazzo, the man who apparently ordered the ambush tonight on what Oz suspects was information supplied by Barb or one of Ed’s underlings. Bad information. Which explains why Jim and the rest of the MCU didn’t find Oswald’s giant mountain of weed.

“I got recertified and everything today,” Oswald explains, “as a bonafide chef, all so I can pretend to sell a bunch of fancy cookware to cover up the fact that I’m actually pushing drugs across state lines, Jim. Ed’s planning an entire marketing campaign and everything.”

Jesus Christ.

He should be cuffing Oswald and reading him his rights, the list of offenses is long—illegal possession of a firearm, illegal possession of a schedule one controlled substance with intent to distribute, trafficking, fraud, aiding and abetting, probably assault, plotting to commit murder, definitely attempted murder, hiring Zsasz, which should be its own felony...

Jim heaves a great sigh, pressed from his lungs by the weight of Oswald’s varied and colorful crimes all spelled out—finally. And that’s just related to one of his husband’s operations. Lord knows what he’s hiding in that goddamned casino, and he definitely doesn’t want to know anything about the lounge’s likely continued racketeering schemes.

There’s a reason they don’t discuss these things; mainly, that reason being Jim’s conscience though he’s adjusted his moral compass somewhat since making detective. Even so, the reality is this: if Jim were to arrest him, it would destabilize the entire city. He’s tried to remove criminal figure heads in the past with unfathomably destructive results, and those organizations weren’t half as subtle as Oswald’s are currently. It’s true, Jim doesn’t want to give Oswald up, and maybe that’s what they’ll say if anyone ever finds out. If Oz is ever busted, and Jim has to testify, maybe they’ll claim he was selfishly motivated.

In part, that’s true. Hell, it could be entirely true, because as great as a personal loss as putting his husband away would be, seeing all of their combined efforts unravel as a result would be just as painful. So, Jim lets out that long, heavy sigh and with it, all the inherent conflict of their positions.

He angles his head down so he can meet Oswald’s anxious gaze, clearly worried he’s misjudged Jim’s newly expanded boundaries. “I knew it.” He snorts, then chuckles. “I knew Gotham Steel was a front. ‘Reformed Mobster’ my ass!”

Oswald’s expression sours, his eyes narrowing above his pinched nose. “I can be altruistic if I want to,” he claims peevishly.

Jim can’t help it: he laughs outright; unburdened by the newly broken wall between them. “Uh-huh.”

“I can,” Oswald insists, though his voice much less sure, and Jim thinks maybe he’s mistakenly stumbled over something there.

“Thank you,” Jim tells him, squeezing his fingers where they’re still tangled with his. “I appreciate what you did for us.”

Oswald furrows his brow, tone self-deprecating. “Which thing? Almost causing us to get divorced or getting you shot?”

“First of all, you didn’t actually shoot me. It’s just a scratch—you saw it with your own eyes. And we were never close to getting a divorce,” Jim firmly responds. “Ever.”

Oswald hums but doesn’t comment. That’s fine, Jim will convince him one way or another. For now, he explains, “You did all of this to protect us.”

“And I nearly ruined us in the process,” Oz insists.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a handful of hours but earlier, at the lounge, I offered to give up my badge for you,” Jim says, trying a different tactic. “Would you give up your ambitions if I asked?”

Oswald doesn’t answer immediately, which is good because if he had, Jim would know it was a lie. He knows what Oz’s work means to him, why he feels power is the only way to prosper—and, in a way, Jim can see his point. As terrible as Oswald’s approach can be, Jim would be a liar if he claimed he never benefitted from its merits.

Finally, Oswald lifts his gaze, lips trembling as he quietly confirms, “Yes.”

“And do you think I’d let you do that for me?” Jim asks. “You think I’d want that?”

“You should,” Oswald says, and Jim can see how deeply he means it. “I’m—”

“Clever,” Jim interjects, and Oswald’s eyes widen. “You see the world in a way others…can’t. I think it eliminates certain moral barriers for you that people like me can’t overcome, but you also have the ability to adjust your approach and you did that for me. I hope, without compromising the things that make you unique. This,” Jim lifts his hand, rests his fingers against Oz’s scalp and gently squeezes, “is a part of you. And you…are good.”

Oswald looks at him with big, watery blue eyes and Jim isn’t trying to make him cry. He only wants him to see what Jim does. So, he draws in a breath, throws his head back against the pillows and shrugs.

“Besides…it’s just a little weed.” Jim tisks. “S’not my department.”

 

\--About Three Months Later--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Big Apricot is a nickname used for Metropolis in the comics, at the very least. Which is, frankly, fucking hilarious. 
> 
> As a side note on this installment, I used a combination of maps to draw from. In my head, the general layout of the city reflects the map created by Elliot R Brown, but I pulled the street names right off the adaptation from Nokia for the Dark Knight Rises video game. Good Lord, I'm a fucking nerd. 
> 
> Second side note, the article in the paper refers to the Packard Plant as being a property owned in part by the city government--I stated in an earlier chapter that Oz owns it under a false identity, which is all part of how he goes about acquiring it under his real name as described in the article. Also, shout out to #SaveGotham--ya'll are doing the Lord's work. 
> 
> Anyway...that lovely ad featured in the newspaper article was graciously manniped by IvyCross, who is the cuddliest of all bunnies. 
> 
> If you guys wanna talk to me about upcoming stuff, anything in this fic, the rest of the series or the characters in general--you know I love it! <3 Hit me up, it’s my fucking brrday, y’all!! DURTY-THREE!! Otherwise, a kudo would absolutely make me a very happy author. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and all of you who are still here from the beginning encouraging me onward. More to come. lol

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you’re excited about what you read, let me know! There’s nothing I love more than sharing theories, character assessments and head canons. Kudos are lovely as well!


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